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4 We reckoned, Grover Cleveland and me did, that this yer 
sprigged pattern would be becomin’ to your build’ ” 






ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OE TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT, IQII, BY DOUBLEDAY. PAGE & COMPANY 


I 


COPYRIGHT, IQOI, BY PERRY MASON & COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT I904, BY ALICE MORGAN 




THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS> GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

* * 


©CI.A300355 

Kfl * t 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The author wishes to thank the Editors of 
The American Press Association for their 
kind permission to reprint Chapters I and II 
of this story; and the Editors of The Youth's 
Companion for their courtesy in permitting 
the republication of Chapters III and IV. 





















* 






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% 






©fc (Sfiriatraas 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. THE ITINERANT CHRISTMAS TREE . 3 

II. CREEDS AND DEEDS 41 

III. UNCONSCIOUS MENTALITY .... 72 

IV. OLD-TIME RELIGION IOI 


\ 



SB* Srcu^fif (SM&tmos 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

“‘We reckoned, Grover Cleveland and 
me did, that this yer sprigged pat- 
tern would be becomin’ to your 
build ’ ” Frontispiece ^ 

FACING PAGE 

“ The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed 
down to an equivocal impression 
where the sand of the road had 
spread itself through the weedy 
border” 4\Z" 

“ They drew up some benches before the 
fire and gave themselves to rest and 
reminiscence” 471/ 

“ ‘ What be you anyway?’ he asked quav- 
eringly, sinking to a seat upon the 
log” 120-' 



\ 




































( SjrtefroS s 


THE ITINERANT CHRISTMAS TREE 


© 


LD MAN Ledbetter came 
jolting along the stony 
mountain road in an ox 
cart, the tin-tipped ends 
of the shoe-string that confined his 
plaited beard dancing upon his breast, 
his hazel whipstock lying at his feet, 
and a hard, stumpy hand spread out 
upon either knee to hold himself 
steady. Without any gee-hawing on 
his part his yoked steeds turned at 
the ford and staggered clumsily into 


©te Bo^lSSfio Brc^St (£fimtmos 

the Junaluska. In midstream a 
shallow swirl of water came circling 
about his feet, but, though he 
may have pressed his hands harder 
upon his knees, the only percep- 
tible preparation he made for a 
possible submerging was the shift- 
ing of his tobacco into the other 
cheek. 

But from the footlog below, a 
call, piping but authoritative, chal- 
lenged his attention. 

“Hi, gran’daddy! he didn’t cross 
the log; you reckon he waded the 
branch? Dixie and me’s done lost 
the trail!” 

“Gee up,” the old man reached 
for his whip and was soon upon the 
sandy terra firma of the other side, 
submissively awaiting his grand- 
son’s pleasure. 

“Here, sir, here!” The puzzled 
Dixie had his nose pressed down to 
an equivocal impression where the 
sand of the road had spread itself 



The puzzled Dixie had his nose pressed down to an 
equivocal impression where the sand of the road had 
spread itself through the weedy border ” 







































' 







































R0 

BotjWo Brou^Sf (Jftmtmas 

through the weedy border. “Now 
foller, old boy; foller I say!” 

The gesture of the grimy little hand 
was imperative, and Dixie sniffed 
among the dried weeds; then, closely 
nosing the ground, circled among 
the cart wheels but, baffled, squatted 
whimpering upon his haunches. 

“You-all trackin’ a rabbit, Grover 
Cleveland?” The old man face- 
tiously scrutinized both dog and boy. 

In the North Carolina mountains 
there were in the time of my story 
and still are many namesakes of 
the great democrat, but our little 
hero was recognized far and wide as 
the child of the party. A sturdy, 
clear-eyed, true-hearted little moun- 
taineer, the party was proud of him 
and no one ever gave him anything 
less than his full Christian name. 

He was an orphan and grand- 
motherless; he and his grandfather 
lived alone, with no woman to keep 
them comfortable. These facts alone 


8S 

3og.106© 3rou^6f (£(imtaas 

would have secured for him abundant 
sympathy from a simple-hearted, 
kindly people; but, in addition to 
these titles to favour, his grandfather 
was respected as an upright man and 
one of the oldest and richest residents 
of the county, owning many acres 
of land — not of richest quality to 
be sure — but as good as any for 
enumeration. So for miles around 
the child was welcomed into every 
mountain cabin, and no home so 
poor that he was permitted to leave 
it without some token of its owner’s 
kindly interest, a pair of home-spun, 
home-knit stockings or mittens or a 
needed patch upon jacket or trousers. 

He was a very small boy to be out 
in the woods alone with his dog; for, 
though the sunny slopes were warm, 
deciduous foliage lay rustling or 
sodden upon the ground and snow 
whitened the shaded clefts and hol- 
lows of the higher peaks. His old 
soft hat covered only the back of 




Sffie Brou^fif Cfimtmas 

his head and in front of it a fringe 
of blond hair bristled aggressively 
above blue eyes that scintillated 
with excitement. He wore clumsy 
copper-toed shoes and warm stock- 
ings wrinkled about his ankles, the 
dangling ends of the parti-coloured 
strings that gartered them showing 
below the short patched trousers. 

“No!” he cried disdainfully, as 
if he had years ago lost interest in 
small game, “it’s old Sandy Claus! 
Cap’n Wiley says he’s got a den some- 
wheres up on the Bald. He’s been 
down to the Pistopals’ meetin’-house 
and left ’em a whole pack of things 
and they’re a-goin’ to hang every 
last one of ’em on to a tree; and 
a-Chrisamus all the Pistopal girls 
and boys is goin’ to pick ’em off for 
keeps. But he ain’t left nary thing 
for the Methdises, or the Presaterians 
or the Red-Baptises or the Yaller- 
Baptises. Don’t you reckon that’s 
a low-down trick, gran’daddy? 



us : 




He was down ye r last night agin 
with another pack o’ things for ’em 
and he come afoot this time for me 
and Dixie’s tracked him; we’ve done 
follered his tracks to the ford but 
we can’t strike his trail on t’other 
side. Git out, gran’daddy, and help 


“Yaas, Grover Cleveland, grand- 
dad’ll shore do what he kin for you,” 
the old man kept a serious face 
and began a clumsy descent, “but 
what you aim to do when you come 
on to him? You aim to clean him 
out?” 

“No, I ain’t goin’ to tech nary 
thing ’thout he tells me; but I aim 
to let on to him that the Red-Baptises 
and the Yaller-Baptises and the 
Presaterians is jes’ as good as the 
Pistopals; and the Methdises is a 
heap better’n any of ’em (you and 
me is Methdises, ain’t we gran’- 
daddy?) and I don’t guess he’ll think 
I’m a storyin’; do you gran’daddy?” 



vl<- 


$6* <£fm$tmas 

“Not if he’s as knowin’ as I take 
him to be, he won’t.” 

Gran’daddy mounted the footlog 
and steadied himself by the hand rail 
as he crossed, while boy and dog 
scampered like squirrels ahead of 
him. On the other side he pretended 
to identify every print the boy dis- 
covered as track of deer, coon, bear, 
or catamount; there was nothing 
indefinite that might stand for a 
possible Santa Claus. 

“He must have waded a right 
smart,” there was a disappointed 
quiver in the shrill treble, “so’s to 
throw us off the track; you reckon 
he kept to the branch as far up as 
the mill, gran’daddy?” 

“It looks right much like he’s just 
criss-crossed first one side the branch 
and then t’other; anyway he’s got the 
sleight of coverin’ up his tracks. I 
reckon we’ll have to give it up, 
Grover Cleveland. Gran’daddy’s 
powerful rushed for time to-day.” 



©k (Oirnttnos 

The old man recrossed the log, 
got into the wagon, and started on 
his jogging way, the boy a quiet, 
drooping little figure beside him. 

“That’s a mighty low-down trick 
in Old Sandy Claus to take and leave 
you out, Grover Cleveland. Them 
Pistopals is the no-countest critters 
to be found in these yer mountings.” 

“ If I was the boss of all the meetin’- 
houses I wouldn’t have any but jes’ 
one, so’s Old Sandy Claus ’ud have 
to do ’em all alike,” the treble weak- 
ened and the boy gazed off into the 
woods with suspicious intensity. 

“Now don’t you go to takin’-on, 
Grover Cleveland; maybe you and 
me can git up a Christmas tree all to 
ourselves; how’d that do? I reckon 
ole gran’dad’s about as rich right now 
as ary somebody round yer. I’ve 
just sold Copperhead Hill to the 
mining company and got the money 
down, two hundred and five dollars!” 
For a moment the old man gloated 



©fe !8rou^6f Cfimtmos 

in silence over his wealth, for among 
these North Carolina mountaineers 
commerce is mostly carried on by 
barter and cash in hand is a scarce 
commodity. 

“The Pistopals’ Chrisamus tree 
is only jes’ a holly” — gradually 
as the new idea had possessed his 
mind the limp little head had faced 
front again — “I clum up into that 
thar fiddle-leaf poplar that grows 
front of the meetin’-house winder 
and looked in, and there ain’t many 
berries on it at all; there’s a heap 
prettier ones in our woods.” 

“Certainly there is, Grover Cleve- 
land. There’s a hundred in White- 
oak Gulley that’s jes’ the shape of 
a yaller-pine burr, and all shinin’ 
with berries. You and me’ll take 
Butterfly and Bonaparte up thar 
and we’ll haul one of them ar holly 
bushes down to the house right soon, 
we will.” 

“Them Pistopals has got theirs 



Sffe 3rou^6t (Sfimtmos 

sot up in a box like it growed there.” 
The blue eyes, though encircled with 
a tale-telling sedimentary deposit, 
were now lifted brightly to the kind 
old face and for gran’daddy there was 
no retreat. 

“By gum, we’ll set our tree up 
in a box in our t’other room like it 
growed there too.” 

“And le’s don’t jes’ you and me 
have it all to ourselves, gran’daddy. 
Le’s have something for Vance Long 
and Harve Edney too; his pa’s a 
Red Baptis’ and his ma’s a Methdis’, 
but I reckon Harve’s the biggest 
part Methdis’ cause he never does me 
mean. And I’d be proud to put a 
hymn-book on for Suly Jordan; she 
sings so good and she tied up my toe 
in turpentine that day I stubbed it. 
And there’s Zeb’lon, old Aunt Dicey’s 
gran’son — looks like he’s growed 
bigger’n there’s any call for — but 
he has troubles yet jes’ like little 
fellers. Ole man Sumter, he shot 


£firi$tmas 

Zeb’s tame deer last Friday, andZeb 
and me, we got to it ’fore it was plumb 
dead and it looked up at Zeb, and 
Zeb he cried sure-’nough tears, 
he did. So you see Zeb’s only a boy 
yet and I don’t want to forgit him 
a-Chrisamus.” 

“Yaas, Grover Cleveland, we’ll 
have a present on that ar tree for 
Zeb and Suly and for every Methdis’ 
boy and girl in Junaluska. There 
can’t be more’n a dozen of ’em since 
old man Simpson and his children 
and his gran’children and all his 
kinfolks left and jined the Baptises. 
And you can count their mas and 
their pas in too. But I’ll have to 
depend on you a heap, Grover 
Cleveland, gran’daddy never did 
see a Christmas tree in all his 
life; it’s a new institution in these 
mountings. Now if your gran’ma 
or your ma was alive they could 
help us out o’ this scrape, but” — — 
he leaned over, trailed his whip- 


Brou^fif Cfimtmas 

lash in the sand and watched it 
reminiscently. 

“And there’s two or three old 
women I want to remember; there’s 
old Aunt Dicey, she and your gran’- 
ma was always close friends. I be- 
lieve I’ll put a new frock on the 
Christmas tree for her. And ’way 
off up in Cutter’s Cove there’s Dan 
Cutter’s widow; she and your gran’- 
ma was girls together, a pretty pair, 
too. I won’t pass her by. And just 
’cross the branch from her is where 
Sam Long’s got his family stowed 
away. His mother — she’s a queer 
ole stick as ever was — but they do 
say that Sam’s wife does the old 
woman mean, so I’ll give her a frock 
just to show ’em all that she’s some 
thought of. If them old critters 
don’t see a Christmas tree this year, 
the chances is they’ll die ’thout ever 
seein’ one. Haw, Bonaparte! By 
gum, if we’d a’ been a steam car we’d 
have run plumb over old Mis’ Jim- 


©fc Src^fif 

son’s cow; ’pears like she ain’t got 
heart in her to get out of the way; I 
reckon that pore old somebody ain’t 
got enough for herself to eat, let 
alone the cow. Gran’son, you jes’ 
get over in behind thar and heave her 
out that thar corn that’s under the 
bag of meal.” 

“ Ain’t she a Pistopal cow, gran’- 
daddy ?” 

“I ’low she is, gran’son, but she’s 
got a whole rotation of stomachs 
and when they’re all hungry at once 
it must give her a powerful gone 
feelin’. I’ll put on a new frock for 
old Mis’ Jimson. I don’t reckon 
she ever had a store frock in her life 
and she ain’t so old yet but what 
she can turn out of her loom a frock 
that’ll outwear three of the store 
kind, but it’ll be a change for her.” 

“O but, gran’daddy! gran’daddy! 
them Pistopals is right mean, they 
are, and ole Mis’ Jimson’s a Pis- 
topal!” 


330* 

©fe Srou^fif <Sfan*tnw* 

“So she is, Grover Cleveland, so 
she is. I never thought of that” — 
for a minute they jogged along in 
silence — “I can’t somehow ’count 
for that, gran’son; thar’s a mis- 
take somewhar — Mis’ Jimson’s a 
good woman. Anyway she can’t git 
down to the Pistopal meetin’-house 
a-Christmas; she’s got a risin’ on 
her leg.” 

“Why, gran’daddy, old Mis’ Jim- 
son can’t go anywhere! She couldn’t 
even git into this yer wagon so as 
we-all could carry her!” 

“I’m ’feared you’re right, Grover 
Cleveland; now that’s another diffi- 
culty ” 

“And all them other old women, 
gran’daddy — how’re they going to 
git down to our Chrisamus tree, 
and how’re they goin’ to git back 
again?” 

“That certainly is a puzzler, gran’- 
son. I reckon we-all will have to 
sleep on to that. If your mother was 


sa® 

©fe !8rcu^6f (Efinetmos 

alive now, she’d know just how to 

take hold ” the old man dropped 

his elbows upon his knees, doubling 
himself in sad retrospection, and the 
little boy slipped off the seat in an 
effort to imitate the position. On 
his knees, holding to the front of 
the wagon box, he solved the problem. 

“Hi, gran’daddy!” he shouted, 
clutching the old man’s trouserlegs 
to help himself to his feet, “me and 
you’ll stand that ar Chrisamus tree 
up in the wagon and we’ll hitch 
Bonaparte and Butterfly to it and 
we’ll carry it round an’ pick it as 
we go!” 

“ That's the talk, Grover Cleve- 
land!” the old man brought down 
upon his knee a big emphatic hand 
covering there two little wincing 
ones; “your ma’d have thought of 
that, too.” 

“And I don’t want to pass any 
boy’s or girl’s house without stoppin’, 
gran’daddy, even if they’s Pistopals; 





way 


mm 

Sffie Srou^fif Cfimtmos 

I ain’t mad at ary one of ’em but 
Williebelle Greenlee, and now I done 
forgot what I’m mad at her for.” 

“I don’t aim to ’lowance you, 
Grover Cleveland. I aim to let 
you get a stick of peppermint or 
horehoun’ for every boy and girl 
in Junaluska. I aim to let you show 
Old Sandy how the thing ought to be 
did. And I don’t reckon I’ll pass 
by any old woman, either, jes’ ’cause 
she’s been misled and jined the 
wrong church; it’s bad enough to 
lose your way without bein’ hounded 
for it besides.” 

“What makes Baptises and Meth- 
dises an’ Presaterians an’ all them, 
gran’daddy? Was they borned that 


You an’ me was, Grover Cleve- 
land; our kinfolks was Methdises 
from way back before the flood I 
reckon; but the rest of ’em they’re 
mostly jes’ mixin’s.” 

“When I come acrost the cattle 









£fk <£fimtmas 

on the mountings, I can tell by the 
slits in their ears who owns ’em; 
but I can’t tell what church owns 
the people round yer ’thout it’s 
meetin’-Sunday and I can see what 
meetin’-house they’re headin’ for. 
Have they got any ear-marks that 
you know ’em by, gran’daddy?” 

“No they ain’t Grover Cleveland; 
they ain’t none of ’em branded 
that-a-way.” 

“What makes ’em diff’rent, gran’- 
daddy?” 

“It’s the way they b’lieve, gran’- 
son. The Methdises they b’lieve 
in free grace and sprinklin’, and the 
Baptises they b’lieve in sousin’, and 
the Presaterians — they’re right 
mean, they are — they b’lieve in 
’lection.” 

“Mighty nigh every somebody 
round yer went to ’lection and voted 
that Tuesday, gran’daddy.” 

“So we did gran’son, so we did; 
but this yer Presaterian ’lection 


(£Rri$tma# 

is somehow cliff rent. It’s a powerful 
low-down kind of ’lection — I reckon 
it’s favourin’ niggers votin’.” 

After waiting a few seconds for 
this theological seed to sink deep 
the old man went on. 

“An’ them Pistopals — I’m feared 
I’m a little in the dark as to their 
belief — but they must be mighty 
good scholars, for they kin read like 
lightnin’. They kin read a psa’m 
so fast that common folks can’t take 
in the sense of what they’re sayin’. 
And there’s another good thing about 
’em: they do rev’rence the name of 
the Lord in the Sunday sarvice; they 
bow considdable low when they 
come to it. Only it does look like 
they don’t all of ’em carry their 
rev’rence ’round with ’em a-week- 
days; there’s Cap’n Campbell, he 
can cuss considdable and he don’t 
do no bowin’ when he calls on the 
name of the Lord a-week-days.” 

“Hi, gran’daddy! the store- 


sa® 

©te Sroujfif (JRmtmas 

keeper’s wife she’s a Pistopal — and 
Monday, when she was scoopin’ up a 
pound of crackers for me, some mice 
run out of the cracker box and she 
jes’ hollered out, ‘For the Lord’s 
sake!’ and she didn’t bow and she 
didn’t look solemn, ary one.” 

“Gran’son, I’ve read that there 
third commandment a heap of times 
and I can’t see as it provides for any 
week-day privileges or indulgences. 
When a man’s cussin’ mad, tain’t 
so powerful ill for him to bat the old 
devil’s name about some but, 
Grover Cleveland, don’t you never 
go to triflin’ with the name of the 
Lord; that’s uncommon low down, 
that is. 

“There used to formerly be only 
one kind of Baptises here and they 
warshipped in the old red church. 
But ole man Jordan he got his back 
up and he took all his kin-people 
away and he built another church 
and he painted it yaller. You see 



£(te Srou^fif Cfimtmo* 

he had a whole mountain of timber 
land that he was glad to get cleared 
off, and his sons run a sawmill, and 
there’s a big bed of yaller ochre 
right back of his house. He was 
smart enough to set ’em all to work, 
while they was red-hot mad. If he’d 
a give ’em time to cool off, that ar 
yaller meetin’-house never would 
been built . They did cool off before 
they got the chimbly up and to this 
day they’re a tryin’ to praise the 
Lord with their stovepipe a-stickin’ 
out the winder.” 

“ There’s too many kinds of ’em 
for old Sandy to git round to ’em 
all, ” said the small boy persistently, 
returning to his first sorrow. 

“ Sometimes it looks to me like 
there’s too many kinds for the Lord 
to get round to ’em all, gran’son. 
There’s some big cities where there’s 
more kinds than we’ve got here. 
There’s two or three kinds of Meth’- 
dises and there’s Free-will Baptises 







SB 


MV 


m 


(flimtmas 

and Holinesses, and they all seem to 
be workin’ for the same end, only 
they can’t agree to work together. 
But, of course, people’s got a right 
to all the religious differences they 
can pay for; but here in Junaluska 
we’re too poor to have so many 
churches.” 

“How did there git to be so many 
kinds, gran’daddy?” 

“’Twas zeal, Grover Cleveland. 
And there’s another point where 
gran’daddy ain’t exactly clear in his 
mind. Zeal must be a good thing; 
St. Paul he owned up that he had it, 
and yet — I reckon zeal’s like ’lec- 
tric’ty, it’s a powerful power for 
good so long as it’s kept in leaders; 
but you let ’lectric’ty go rarin’ 
round promiscuous and it’ll rip things 
all to flinderations. Eight years ago 
we had jes’ one church in Junaluska 
and we had a preacher all to ourselves; 
we didn’t let him starve to death 
or freeze to death, ary one. He lived 



(MV 


(Sfiriatma* 

down thar in my log cabin and he 
had his own roastin’-ear patch and 
a garden and a orchard. He had a 
horse of his own and there wasn’t 
a cabin in any of these mountain 
gullies that he didn’t know his way 
to, and there wasn’t a cabin where 
he wasn’t looked up to and respected. 
But by and by folks of diff’rent 
b’liefs came settlin’ round here. They 
was all powerful pious and they was 
all bustin’ with zeal, each one for 
his own ‘religious denomination’ as 
they called it. And — well — I 
never could contrive just how they 
done it — but tollable soon there was 
five diff’rent churches in Junaluska 
and no more religion than there was 
before; unless pullin’ and haulin’ 
and each one tryin’ to git ahead of the 
other constitutes religion, which I’m 
doubtful if it do. And more’n that 
there ain’t work enough nor ham and 
hominy enough in Junaluska for 
more than one preacher. Them 


24 


sagp 

Brcwjfif Cfiriatmos 

questions of yours has set me to 
studying Grover Cleveland. 

So gran’daddy folded himself to- 
gether and “ studied ” the rest of the 
way, while his grandson, making the 
most of his little brief authority, 
yelled so conflicting commands at 
the puzzled oxen that they took 
their head and in due time drew 
the rattling old wagon safe into the 
home barn yard. 

A scarlet-beaded holly, fresh from 
the forests of the North Carolina 
mountains, is a Christmas Tree the 
wealthiest church in Christendom 
might covet. Such a one our heroes 
fixed upright and firm in the shackly 
old farm wagon. It seemed to grow 
from a soil deeply top dressed with 
corn fodder. 

The resources of the one little store 
at the village were meagre but the 
genius of the decorators was not 
versatile. Gran’daddy chivalrously 
intended for the old women to have 


the best and in his eyes a new frock 
was a princely gift. As for the old 
men, what so appropriate and ac- 
ceptable as a paper of plug tobacco. 
At this stage his ingenuity was ex- 
hausted and his grandson did the rest. 

If there was anything that Grover 
Cleveland liked better than candy, 
it was more candy, and though he 
was unlearned in the letter of the 
Golden Rule its spirit was inherent 
in his nature. So, although the 
storekeeper had laid in an extra 
supply for the holiday trade (it was 
all in sticks, the kind in vogue when 
grandmas were little girls), when 
our small Santa Claus had made his 
purchases there was none left in stock 
and by the time material for seven- 
teen calico gowns had been measured 
off, the storekeeper, among whose 
mental endowments the commercial 
instinct was not prominent, had per- 
suaded himself that it was a crying 
injustice that the well-filled shelves 



S3® 

SB* Brou^fif Cfiristnm 

of which he had been so proud should 
have been depleted at one purchase. 

As much chagrined as pitiful, he 
watched his opportunity, and when 
Grover Cleveland, who was “ toting’ ’ 
his packages from the store to the 
wagon where his grandfather sat, 
was gathering up his last armful he 
called him to a rear window. 

“Do you see that ar woman toilin’ up 
the mountain with a poke on her back ?” 

“Ye-e-s!” cried the child, “and 
she’s got a little boy with her a heap 
littler than me!” 

“That woman’s yer Aunt Calliny; 
and that ar little boy’s your own 
cousin. Don’t you think one of them 
caliker frocks ought to go to her and 
some of that candy to little Jakey? 
Why, he’s named for your gran’- 
daddy.” 

The loyal little grandson turned 
away dispiritedly saying only: 

“She done gran’daddy mean.” 

“And that ar little feller’s shoes is 


®Re 

the raggedest you ever see,” this 
last remark was flung after the boy 
who was making a rapid exit. 

The Ledbetter homestead was some 
distance from the highroad behind 
a screen of hills, and an old shed into 
which the afternoon sun shone with 
warm approval afforded privacy for 
the trimming of the tree. Though 
one pair of hands trembled with age 
and one pair with eagerness, as early 
as the twenty-second of December 
it stood in glorious completeness. The 
calico frocks, tightly rolled and tied 
with twine, swung from the stoutest 
branches, while the twigs bore fruit 
of plug tobacco and candy in waste- 
ful and bewildering abundance. 

4 4 Twenty- three, twenty-four, twen- 
ty-five,” counted the tired little 
Santa Claus as he lay on his 
bed that night. Three aeons the 
days seemed to him and he sighed 
himself off to the land of Nod. The 
old man too slipped smoothly off 


Srou^fif Cfimtmos 

to sleep, but he sighed as he went 
to think that time flies so fast. 
Dixie took no note of time, but be- 
fore morning he took note of a bear 
that came nosing about the prem- 
ises, attracted by the smell of sweets, 
and he barked so frantically as to 
bring the old man upon the spot 
armed with a musket that had seen 
service in ’6i. Bruin retired from 
the scene with a leaden Christmas 
gift under his hide and gran’daddy 
wrapped himself in a tattered cloak 
of army gray and patrolled till morn- 
ing. He felt hardly equal to two 
more nights of keeping guard, so 
he said to his grandson over their 
early breakfast: 

“This is a mighty pretty day and 
it might rain a-Christmas.” 

So they made out their itinerary 
at once and, though they were sub- 
ject to some delays and gran ’daddy 
remarked as he groped for his gloves 
in the wood box among dish towels, 


3otj.18fio 23rou<)6f (Oiristmas 

frying pans, broken dishes, and 
wearing apparel, “It’s quare what 
a way things has of skulking out of 
sight when they’re wanted,” and 
the little boy replied as he tore a strip 
from a window curtain and gartered 
his stocking, “It’s ’cause we ain’t 
got no woman here to keep ’em in 
their place,” by sunrise the oxen were 
hitched up and the premature Christ- 
mas tree started on its journey. 

It was a day of gentle, insinuative, 
persistent sunshine, such as in these 
mountains December is not chary 
of. The frost-sheathed trees of the 
highest ridges lay like a long fluff 
of white ostrich feathers against 
the azure; light snows and partial 
thaws had converted the nearer 
mountain sides into a darkly cray- 
oned network of lines and angles 
upon a dappled ground; all around 
them clustered the innumerable 
beauties of the winter landscape, and 
only the roads were vile. 


sa® 

Sffe Brou^fif (£fimtmos 

The old man looked a veritable Santa 
Claus. Recognizing the churchly sig- 
nificance of the occasion, he had un- 
braided his beard and it fell before 
him a rippling, silver shield; beneath 
his gray slouch hat his kind eyes 
twinkled in their coverts of shaggy 
beetle-brows and, unconsciously com- 
pleting the picture, he had discarded 
his tobacco for a corn-cob pipe. 

Beside him, his little heart 
a-flutter but his face held resolutely 
serious, sat his grandson and be- 
tween them sat Dixie for, in recog- 
nition of his services of the night, 
he too had been advanced to the 
position of a Santa Claus and in 
a far corner of the wagon, where the 
benefactor would not be tempted 
to test for himself the compara- 
tive blessedness of giving and re- 
ceiving, was a stack of bones (there 
had been a “killing” the day before) 
for Dixie to bestow upon his canine 
acquaintances. 


Sfk Cfirtetmos 

To old Mis’ Jimson the tree was 
carried in pristine completeness. 
From the well where she was trying 
to persuade her cow that a handful 
of meal in two gallons of water is 
mush, she espied its green top com- 
ing up behind the hill. For a mo- 
ment she watched it grow, but before 
the oxen came into sight she hobbled 
away in terror to her cabin. 

“I knowed it,” she said. “I 
knowed that ar owl a-hootin’ ’fore 
the door all night, meant some kind 
of meanness. ‘Trees as men 
walkin’ ” — she paraphrased un- 
wittingly, and she didn’t know 
whether the text was history or 
prophecy. But she grabbed her 
testament from off the shelf and a 
rabbit’s foot from out the button 
box, reassuring herself by a swift 
glance that it was the left hind one 
(no other “keeps a man from harm ”) , 
pressed the two together, and ven- 
tured to take another look. She 


Srou^fif (£fimtmos 

recognized the oxen, the wagon, 
and its occupants. Her terror fled, 
but she stood transfixed with amaze- 
ment. 

“Mis’ Jimson, this ’ere’s a sure 
’nough Chrisamas tree,” called Grover 
Cleveland. 

She hobbled down to the gate, 
“What upon airth, Jakey Ledbetter?” 
she asked. 

Her old neighbour’s answer was 
an impressive silence while his un- 
steady hands plucked from the tree 
a roll of blue calico. “We reckoned, 
Grover Cleveland and me did, that 
this yer sprigged pattern would be 
becomin’ to your build,” he said 
presenting it. 

“You ain’t tellin’ me that this 
yer’s for me!” — she smoothed out 
a fold with a quivering motion of 
her rheumatic old hand — “Colonel 
Ledbetter, I never did have a store 
frock before and it’s more’n I ever 
expected to own in this world.” 


ss® 

^Brou^fif (Jfimtma# 

“Moo-o,” complained the cow 
and overturned the bucket, where- 
upon an avalanche of “roughness” 
descended upon her head. 

“La me,” exclaimed Mis’ Jimson, 
“is Christmas trees for the dumb 
critters too?” 

“That’s the view Grover Cleve- 
land ’pears to take of it. Thar’s 
enough for one fodderin’ gran’son; 
we’ll drive round and put the rest 
in the shed.” 

Shielding her eyes with her hand 
the old woman watched them out 
of sight. “I ain’t been carin’ 
lately whether I was livin’ or not,” 
she mused, “but if Christmas trees 
is beginnin’ to circolate in these 
yer mountings, I aim to perk up 
and live long enough to git my 
share.” 

Most of the old people who were 
young when gran’daddy was a boy 
still occupied their fathers’ holdings 
in clefts and coves up in the higher 



Srcu^fif (£fim(mos 

mountains and to them the tree was 
carried while the sunshine still 
slanted and the roads were unthawed. 
Time flies or I would tell of its 
triumphant journey; how faded 
eyes grew bright and wrinkles 
wreathed themselves into smiles; how 
salutations and jokes fresh fifty 
years ago tripped upon the tongue as 
nimbly as in their early days. Only 
one failed to respond to the Christ- 
mas spirit of the occasion. That 
was old Captain Sumter. They 
came upon him leaning over his 
remnant of front fence viciously 
fletcherizing tobacco of his own un- 
skillful curing. 

“What fool consarn’s that, Jake 
Ledbetter ?” he growled as the turn- 
out stopped before him. 

“It’s a Chrisamus tree,” called 
Grover Cleveland, scrambling to the 
ground and presenting him with 
a package of choice Durham. 

The old man pocketed it but his 





©k Srou^Sf Cfiristmas 

thanks were of a fashion peculiarly 
his own : 

“Jake Ledbetter, you always was 
the durndest fool in Junaluska.” 

Only one took exception to her 
gift. That was Aunt SalN Long, 
the “queer old stick.” 

“Now Jakey Ledbetter,” she 
whined, “I can’t put that caliker to 
no use in the world. I wove this 
frock myself mighty nigh five year 
ago” — she held out her narrow skirt 
for his inspection — “and I ain’t 
snagged it yet. I reckon it’s goin’ 
to last as long’s I do, at any rate I 
don’t want another frock added unto 
me. I’d a heap ruther you’d a 
brung me a pound of snuff.” 

“Aunt Sally” (the accommodating 
Santa Claus took the roll from her 
and restored it to the tree), “it’s my 
intention for you to have whatever 
you can get the most fun out of; I 
can barter that thar frock for snuff 
enough to last you all your life, and 


Srcu^fif (£fimtmas 

there’ll be a balance cornin’ to you 
besides; what’ll you have for that?” 

“I don’ know, Jakey,” she drawled, 
and she pleated the hem of her 
apron while she pondered, “I don’ 
know; I reckon you might as well 
bring me a little more snuff.” 

The roads were heavy with mud 
when Bonaparte and Butterfly toiled 
down into the little straggling town. 
“This is a Chrisamus tree,” an- 
nounced the little Santa Claus, and 
there was no need to tarry there for 
delivery, for all the foot-free deni- 
zens, young, old, and middle-aged, 
thronged it when it stopped and 
followed when it moved on, and 
the tree shed its fruit as if a gale 
had struck it. 

The old Santa Claus held his 
whip with a fine show of noncha- 
lance while the little one worked 
among the holly branches, disdain- 
ful of the thorns, his eyes afire, his 
cheeks red hot, and his aureole of 


ttfi* Urou^fif (flimtma* 

yellow hair tossing and tumbling 
with every motion of his little body. 
Williebelle, her ears tied up with 
a red woollen stocking and redo- 
lent of turpentine, was there and 
upon her he bestowed three sticks 
of peppermint, “two for herself and 
one for her earache.” He waited in 
person upon Aunt Polly, bedridden 
for a dozen years, and the procession 
was brought to a stand before her 
door that she might look out upon 
the first Christmas tree she had 
ever seen. 

“I ’low this is a Methdis’ Christ- 
mas tree,” cried an Episcopalian 
(the only cynical one), “you-all 
aimed to get ahead of us.” 

“No, siree,” answered the old 
man, “this yer tree’s built according 
to Grover Cleveland’s plan and he 
don’t b’lieve in seeks. We-all ain’t 
aimin’ to git ahead of anybody but 
the bears.” 

“Merry Christmas,” 


shouted a 


sa® 

£(k Srou^fif (ifimtmas 

peace-making Episcopalian and the 
crowd took up the greeting, “Merry 
Christmas! Merry Christmas !” till 
the hills gave back the echo. 

The tired oxen drew the dis- 
mantled tree out of the vil- 
lage. The tired little Santa Claus 
cuddled sleepily within the encir- 
cling arm of the old one but they 
left behind them the spirit of the 
Christmas-tide. In the village 
“Merry Christmas !” still sounded 
from house to house and along the 
streets. The sticky children shouted 
it to one another; the women from 
their door-ways told it to passers-by; 
old men, nodding and smiling as 
they fumbled with jack-knife and 
tobacco and young men lounging 
on the corners, all told it to one 
another. Red Baptists told it to 
Yellow Baptists and Presbyterians 
to Methodists, and some unthink- 
ingly told it to persons they were 
not on speaking terms with, then 



looked ashamed but repeated it. 
By and by the shadows came down 
into the valley, crept to the sum- 
mits of the eastern ridge, slipped 
over and the village lay in darkness 
and in peace. 

But high up on the mountain 
side, in a lonely hut that had not 
been visited by the Christmas tree, 
Carolina cuddled her little boy to 
sleep, crooning softly and sadly: 

“While shepherds watched their flocks by 
night, 

All seated on the ground.” 


Site Sfimtmas 


II 

CREEDS AND DEEDS 

The Episcopalians met next 
morning to trim the tree. They 
had the candles and candies and 
tinsel decorations sent them by the 
foreign Santa Claus whom Grover 
Cleveland had tried to track, and 
for every member of their congre- 
gation they had made little stockings 
of net. These they proceeded to 
fill with candy and to hang upon 
the tree, discussing meanwhile the 
perambulating tree of the pre- 
vious day. 

“There was nary somebody passed 
by,” said one, restoring with a bit 







Srou^fif (Sfindtmos 

of lemon stick the equilibrium of a 
tilted stocking, “the babies got 
something, every last one of ’em, 
and the niggers too, so fur as I 
know.” 

“Every one was free to go to the 
first Christmas celebration,” said 
the young girl who taught the two- 
months-a-year free-school. “The 
shepherds came from the fields, and 
the angels came from heaven, and 
I have read that the wise men who 
came were from so far removed 
parts of the earth that they didn’t 
even speak the same language.” 

“You reckon they was all Epis- 
copals?” 

“No, but when they went away 
they were all Christians.” 

The rest of the decorators were 
a little awed by such erudition and 
no further remarks were made till 
the last gift was tied in its place 
and the candles, firmly fixed and 
pointing rafterward, were ready 


tTfie Srou^fif (Sfimtmas 

for the lighting. Then they stood 
off and surveyed the work of 
their hands. 

“It’s powerful pretty,” said one. 

“Yes, but seem like it’s narrow- 
contracted ’long side of Grover 
Cleveland’s tree. ’Course we’ve got 
six ten-cent dolls and he didn’t 
have nary one and he didn’t have 
nary candle but ” 

“It’s not leavin’ out ary some- 
body that I’m studyin’ about. Why 
even our Nick got a shinbone, and 
I declare if he ain’t fit Grover Cleve- 
land’s dog till he’s mighty nigh 
chawed his ears plumb off his head.” 

“Old man Higgins told me ‘Merry 
Christmas’ yesterday evening. It’s 
the first word he’s spoke to me 
since I left the Methdis’ meetin’- 
house, and I wish there was some- 
thing on this yer tree for him, just 
to show him that we-all ain’t 
holdin’ a grudge,” and further dis- 
cussion revealed the fact that every 


©fe 'Botj.TSfio Srou^fif (ffimtmos 

one there had a neighbour or friend 
belonging to one of the other churches 
whom, for one reason or another, 
he or she would like to invite to 
the Christmas-tree. 

The school teacher took a pencil 
from her pocket and they gathered 
round her. “We’ll begin at the 
first house towards sun-up,” they 
said; “there’s three somebodies 
there, there’s two in the next house 

and ” they counted every person 

in the neighbourhood and then the 
school teacher “done a sum.” “Nine 
pounds more will treat them all to 
candy,” she said and in a body 
they proceeded to the store to see if 
they could buy nine pounds at the 
wholesale rate. 

“I declare, ’tain’t my fault,” 
pleaded the storekeeper. “I laid 
in ten pounds extra for Christmas 
but old man Ledbetter come in yer 
and he let Grover Cleveland clean 
me out. You can gen’rally, most al- 


88 ® 

Sfk ‘Boj.HSfio tBrou^fif Cfimtmas 

ways trust Colonel Ledbetter not 
to do no low down tricks but you- 
all know how’tis; if Grover Cleveland 
was a-hankerin’ after the whole 
top side of the airth his gran’daddy’d 
git it for him if he could. I’ve 
ordered some more, but it won’t be 
here till to-morrow.” 

“That’s all right,” said the school 
teacher, “we’ll meet again this even- 
ing to make some more stockings, and 
we’ll trim the tree all over again and 
we’ll have a Christmas tree for all 
Junaluska.” 

Some rustic beaux had been hang- 
ing about the group listening to the 
colloquy. They looked at one an- 
other and they looked at a row of 
fresh-faced, luxuriant-haired moun- 
tain girls at another counter bartering 
eggs which they had “toted” from 
their homes five or six miles 


awav. 

“Make 

evening,” 


it a general spree this 
they pleaded, “ let us 


(Sfirfotmos 


come to the tree-trimming and bring 
our girls.” 

“We will,” said the teacher, “if 
you-all will spread the news that 
it’s to be an un-de-nom-i-na-tional 
tree and that all the grown-ups are 
invited to come to-night to the 
trimming and to bring for the tree 
whatever gifts they have for their 
families and their friends, and that 
young and old are invited to the 
exercises to-morrow night.” 

“Captain Boyce won’t come nor 
Judge Brevard, ary one; they took 
a oath never to set foot in that 
thar meetin’-house.” 

“Then we’ll move the tree some- 
where else.” 

Such was the series of events 
that transferred the tree and the 
trimmers to Colonel Ledbetter’s two- 
room cabin that overlooked the 
village from a highroad. The log fire 
blazing wide and high in the chimney 
place put to shame the candles that 





“ They drew up some benches before the fire and gave 
themselves to rest and reminiscence” 




(Elk 23roucjfif (£fimtmas 

swaled and sputtered in turnip can- 
delabra, but could not dim the light 
that shone from merry eyes as the 
happy people helped or hindered 
with equally good intentions. Long 
before dispersion could be thought 
of the tree stood full fruited and 
ready for the morrow’s harvesting. 

Suddenly the barking of a dog 
roused the gully behind the cabin. 

“That’s my Caesar; he’s struck a 
’possum trail,” exclaimed a swain 
and with one rush young men and 
maidens made for the moonlit out- 
of-doors and joined in a ’possum 
hunt. Only the serious minded re- 
mained, fewer than a score of people 
and yet they were the metaphorical 
pillars of five different denominations 
of Christian churches, each strug- 
gling independently to establish the 
same gospel in that little mountain 
town. They drew up some benches 
before the fire and gave themselves 
to rest and reminiscence. On the 


©fc Srou^fif Ciimtmas 

road, in the fields, or at his fireside 
the Junaluskan may address his 
neighbour as Bill or Jeff or Jack, but 
in assembly every elderly man is 
accorded a title, military, civil, or 
ecclesiastic. 

“Gettin’ ’long in years, Colonel 
Ledbetter,” observed a grizzled 
mountaineer running his eyes along 
the blackened rafters of the cabin; 
“a hundred year old ain’t it?” 

“ Mighty nigh,” answered the Col- 
onel shooting tobacco juice at a 
fallen ember before kicking it back 
into the fire. 

“ Looks like with a little fixin’ up 
’twas good for another hundred. 
You ain’t let it lately?” 

“No, Deacon Higgins, I ain’t.” 
The speaker doubled into his study- 
ing attitude with unperceiving eyes 
upon the hearth; “the last tenant 
made a barnyard of the road out 
yer in front, fed his cattle and 
hogs there reg’lar so’t women folks 


M 



(Tfi* ^ISIlo Srw^fif (flirtetinas 

couldn’t git by to go to meetin’ 
without silin’ their Sunday clothes 
and he let the ragweed run clean 
up to the eaves. It hurt my feelin’s 
to look at the place, ’twas such a 
contrast to what’ twas when Preacher 
Carr had it, so I turned him loose 
and locked the door and I don’t 
guess I’ll ever rent it again.” 

“Preacher Carr certainly did keep 
it mighty snug,” said Captain Camp- 
bell, “and he was powerful proud 
of it too. He’d point out to every 
stranger the part the Injins built 
and the part your father added on 
to it; and he was proud of all out- 
doors besides. He ’lowed there 
wasn’t another tree in the country 
so handsome to look at as this yer 
postoak out in front.” 

“And if he and his old gray mare 
was on the homeward road any whar 
near sundown, she’d break into a 
trot of her own free will and accord, 
knowin’ she’d got to git him here in 


£fk (Efirtetmas 

time to see the sun slip down behind 
the Bald.” 

“And he done made a sermon 
onct ’bout that ar cliff t’other side 
the road. His tex’ was somethin’ 
’bout ‘The shadow of a Great Rock,’ 
and mighty nigh all the women in 
the meetin’-house had to unfold 
their pocket handkerchiefs ’fore he 
got through.” 

“And he done kep’ his tater- 
patch as clean of weeds as my wife 
keeps her posy beds.” 

“And he worked jes’ as hard to 
weed the sin out of Junaluska as he 
did to weed the pusly and cockles 
out of his roas’n’-ear patch.” 

“Amen!” shouted Deacon Hig- 
gins.” 

“And he was always yer when he 
was needed ” — the voice was un- 
steady and the speaker sat in the 
shadow. “I tell ye it cuts me 
powerful that when my wife died 
last spring there was nary a preacher 


Srou^fif Cfimtmos 

to take her last test’mony, and she 
a-askin’ for him all the time. The 
neighbours done what they could 
when we laid her away; they sung 
a hymn and Judge Brevard read a 
chapter, but there was nary a ser- 
mon preached or a lesson of her life 
said over her, and she a Meth’dis’ 
in good and reg’lar standin’. I 
ain’t a-blamin’ our young preacher; 
the branches was swelled at the fords 
and the bridges was swept away. 
He couldn’t git yer nohow. But 
seem like something’s wrong when 
we’ve got five meetin’-houses and 
nary preacher living yer.” 

“ We don’t have Pres’terian preach- 
in’ but once a month, because our 
preacher’s got three other charges be- 
sides Junaluska. He rides seventeen 
miles to git yer; but he ain’t Samson 
and he’s mighty nigh wore out ’fore 
he begins, and he has to gallop through 
the sarvice and ride off to after-dark 
preachin’ somewheres else.” 


Site 'Bctj.'IMo Broucjfif Cfimtmas 

“Jes’ the same way ’tis with our 
preacher” — the women were speak- 
ing now — “he shakes hands friendly 
like but I don’t guess, if all the folks 
in the diff’rent places where he 
preaches was stood up together, 
he’d know me and my children from 
the lot.” 

“Them was good old times” — 
the deacon’s wife took off her sun- 
bonnet and straightened up its 
crown as she spoke — “when we 
had one meetin’-house and preachin’ 
every Sunday and Preacher Carr 
was right here on the ground ready 
for marryin’ or buryin’ or any sich 
like.” 

“And Mis’ Carr — she was a 
mother to all of us.” 

“ Our preacher’s got a right big 
family and they do say that he don’t 
make enough to keep ’em all comf’- 
table; but I don’t know how ’tis. 
Our church agreed to give him 
thirty dollars this year and we done 



(SRmtmoa 

raised fo’teen of it cash down 
and we reckoned we’d about make 
up the balance of it in apples and 
potatoes; there was some corn give 
besides. To be sure there was no 
way for him to haul it home, for 
he don’t own a wagon; but seem 
like, if his other churches done as 
well by him as we do, he wouldn’t 
be so peaked looking. They say 
he ain’t nary top coat to wear, but 
we-all give him nine pair of mit- 
tens and five pair of wristers, . and 
Callerstown give him seven pair of 
mittens and four comforters for his 
neck and some wristers besides, and 
it do seem like his other churches 
ought to give him a overcoat.” 

A few minutes of thoughtful 
silence ensued; then a philosopher 
spoke. 

“It’s a heap easier to ’stablish 
churches than ’tis to support ’em 
after they’re sot goin’.” 

With a deeply drawn breath Col- 


©te 35ot^18(k> Cfiristmos 

onel Ledbetter stretched out his 
legs, set his soles upright before the 
fire, folded his arms and squared 
himself. He waited respectfully for 
the old bench to complete its squeak- 
ing preface, then, singling out one 
fork of a blazing log, addressed it 
earnestly. 

“ Grover Cleveland, he don’t be- 
lieve in beliefs and I’ve been 
a-studyin’ whether he ain’t right. 
I reason this a-way: 

“You-all know how ’tis with the 
gris’-mills round yer; some of ’em 
is run by a turbine wheel and some 
by a overshot wheel and Captain 
Campbell he’s jes’ sot up a undershot 
wheel. But if the day of meracles 
wasn’t past and some of us should 
stop on our way home from the mill 
and leave ole Mis’ Jimson a bag of 
meal, it would keep her and her ole 
cow from starvin’ plumb to death 
and she’d never ask which mill 
ground that ar grist. And in my 


gass 

Sfi* 25rcu<)6f (Sfiriafono* 

opinion that’s the way ’tis with 
these yer diff’rent religious seeks 
we’ve got in Junaluska; they each 
turn their crank in their own way 
but there ain’t much choice in the 
grist they turn out; that is to say, 
neighbours, if you judge a man from 
his outgoin’s and his incomin’s it 
would take more than human jedg- 
ment to tell whether he’s been ground 
by the Piscopals or the Methdises or 
the Presaterians or the Baptises. 

“When we git riled, Presaterian 
cussin’ don’t sound noways diff’rent 
from Methdis’ cussin’ and a way- 
farin’ man in Junaluska could never 
tell by lookin’ at the children’s 
frocks and faces whether their 
mothers believe that sprinklin’ or 
duckin’ is the tellin’est means of 
grace; and Baptis’ hogs and cattle 
left out on the mountings all winter 
without fodder and shelter looks 
jes’ as gaunted-up when spring 
comes as the Piscopals’ does. I’m 



Sffe Srou^fif (Efiriatmo* 

beginnin’ to think, neighbours, that 
there’s right much more religion in 
doin' then there is in fussin’ about 
beliefs/* 

“Amen!” shouted a Methodist 
brother and the speaker gained 
courage. 

“Pd like,” he went on, “to jine 
hands and pull together again, and 
don’t meddle with each others’ be- 
liefs, till some one’s deeds shows 
that his creed is the best. Pd like 
not to worship any longer in meetin’- 
houses that ain’t as snug as a barn 
ought to be. All of us together 
can keep one building painted and 
the roof tight and the windows 
sashed. Pd like not to have a 
hand in starvin’ or freezin’ any more 
preachers, but to make one preacher 
comf’table right here in Junaluska 
— we done it once and we done 
it without any outside help too — 
and we can do it ag’in. Pd like 
to have him always right yer on 





SB* 3o^l8Bo Srou^fif (£fimtmas 

the ground to christen our children, 
to bury our dead, and to marry our 
young folks. For myself, I ain’t 
carin’ what college turned him out 
so’s he’s a sure-’nough Christian 
and cares more about right livin’ 
than he does about beliefs.” 

By the wall, the only occupant 
of a bench with legs of assorted 
lengths and easily tilted, sat Deacon 
Higgins who here put in a demurrer. 
Jolting back and forth, bririging 
the bench legs and his feet resound- 
ingly upon the floor to mark his time, 
he sang, his eyes fixed upon a rafter 
and his heart upon opposition: 

“‘I’m Meth’dis born an Pres’terian bred, 
But Meth’dis will I die!’ 

I’m a shoutin’ Meth’dis.” 

“Well, you could continue on a 
shouting Meth’dis!” 

“La, yes;” Colonel Ledbetter’s 
plan had won some enthusiastic 
supporters among the women. 
“Deacon Higgins you could take an 



K8@r 


Itoy l&fw 33rouq6f (£fimtmos 

c^f qJ 

amen corner for you and your folks 
and we-all wouldn’t object to your 
shoutin’ in once in a while.” 

“And if the Piscopals wants to 
stand up and stretch their legs and 
try a readin’ match with the 
preacher now and then, why we 
could accommodate ’em with some 
Bible-readin’ ’long with the singin’ 
and preachin’; the Bible makes 
good readin’ for any ’casion.” 

“I’m tired,” said a weary-eyed 
woman. “I’m tired of the ever- 
lastin’ scratchin’ round to git ahead 
of some one else; I’m tired of runnin’ 
our church with one eye onto four 
other churches to see that they 
don’t come out a step ahead.” 

Here a horse’s hoofs clattered 
upon the frozen road in front. Two 
or three women went to the window. 
“It’s Preacher Freeman,” they 
announced. “He’s on his way to 
Mills’s Ford to see that man that’s 
been hurt.” 





Sfie Brou^fif (£fimtaas 

“He’s got nine miles further to 
ride and it’s mighty cold.” 

The door opened and a tall man, 
dark and spare, entered. He might 
have been thirty years old, but he 
smiled at the tree with boyish ap- 
preciation as he made his way past 
it and gave the assembly a general 
“Howdy.” Then he drew off his 
mittens and went from one to an- 
other shaking hands though he didn’t 
call them all by name. His own church 
people were there, but it is needless 
to name their denominational con- 
formity — he was an honour to any 
church. They gave him a seat before 
the fire and he stretched out his 
shabbily shod feet toward it with 
a tired sigh, but an involuntary one, 
for he checked it. 

“I stopped at your house Judge 
Brevard,” he said, “and learned that 
you were here.” 

Embarrassed at being found in 
company so ecclesiastically mixed, 


59 



(Qin&taias 

Brevard irrelevantly felt of the 
young man’s coat. 

“Tollable thin for this weather,” 
he said. 

“The exercise of riding keeps me 
warm,” answered the preacher and 
changed the subject. “I didn’t expect 
to find all my people here” (with kind 
eyes he seemed to single out his own). 
“I’m glad of it,” he continued heart- 
ily. “I’m glad to see the whole 
neighbourhood joining hands.” 

He praised the tree, gave a few 
minutes to general and friendly dis- 
course, arranged with Brevard the 
personal matter which had been the 
object of his call, wished them a 
“Merry Christmas” and went out. 
They heard him speak to his horse 
as he untied him but in a moment 
he entered the cabin again. He 
came forward haltingly and laid 
a hand upon the back of a bench, 
fidgeting like an embarrassed school- 
boy as he began to speak: 


Sffi* !8row^6f Cfimtmos 

“ Brethren, I spent last night 
twenty miles from here up on the 
Harriman Mountain. You-all know 
what Harriman is like.” 

Colonel Ledbetter twisted himself 
round and faced the speaker. 

“It’s the barrenest, ungratefulest 
land in the North Callina Moun- 
tains” (his voice had a defiant twang 
as if he challenged contradiction), 
“and how old Preacher Carr wrastles 
a livin’ out of that place he’s settled 
on, is more’n I can study out.” 

“It’s Preacher Carr I want to 
speak to you about. You-all know 
that Brother Carr can get a crop 
out of a piece of ground if any one 
can. Next to men’s souls he loves 
the soil, and, my friends, whether 
we work with things physical or 
spiritual, it’s the loving touch that 
coaxes on the harvest. You-all 
know that, with late spring frosts 
and summer droughts, this has been 
a hard year for our farmers — your 


£(k ‘Bgj.'iMo (Siriatmas 

own cribs are only half full of corn 
and your fodder stacks are few and 
small; and yet your valley is a 
Land of Promise compared to Harri- 
man’s Bald. Preacher Carr and his 
wife are facing a winter of want. 
They gave me the mountaineer’s 
welcome, but when she prepared 
the supper, I heard her gourd- 
scoop scrape the bottom of the meal 
bin, and this morning a creditor 
led away their staggering, starving 
cow. And yet Brother Carr is not 
decrepit; he is still hale and hearty 
but — God pity the old when their 
work is taken out of their hands 
before their graves are ready for 
them. 

“He asked after his people in 
Junaluska (you will be ‘ his people’ 
as long as his loyal old soul har- 
bours a sentiment) and, when I 
told him I should pass through here 
this evening, he said, ‘Tell them a 
God-bless you, for me.’ Some one has 





vOk Ueu 166 o Srouofif (SEmtmaa 

qJ 

told him that his old church is well- 
nigh gone to ruin and he asked me 
to take notice of it as I passed by 
and to shut the door if it stood open. 

“So I have come back to ask 
yoti to add to your Christmas list 
the name of your old neighbour, 
friend, and pastor, this needy ser- 
vant of God. He has not for- 
gotten you and I know you will not 
forget him.” 

He turned and walked out of the 
cabin and the group sat in silence 
till the sound of his horse’s hoofs 
grew faint. 

“Them was good old times,” 
reiterated the deacon’s wife. 

“I was some to blame when 
Preacher Carr was sent away,” said 
Colonel Ledbetter, “I own up to 
it but ” 

“You hadn’t a mite more to 
say about it than the rest of us 
had ” 

“I hadn’t a thing in the world 



vwk 3rou^6f Cfimtmas 

agin him,” the old man went on 
without noticing the interruption; 

“ ’twas only that two other churches 
was a-runnin’ opposition to us and 
their preachers were young men 
and were drawing off our young 
people; I thought if we had a young 
man to preach for us we might get 
’em all back again. ’Twas zeal that 
made me do it, misguided zeal; 
you see I hadn’t studied it out about 
religious seeks then as I have since.” 

But we need not give a full report 
of that meeting. It was not con- 
ducted by parliamentary rules, but 
its enactments went into effect 
next day. 

Grover Cleveland and gran’daddy, 
side by side in the old farm wagon, 
took the road while it was still so 
dark that they must needs give 
the mules the rein. But there were 
other early risers in that community, 
for by sunrise Campbell and Green- 
lee and Brevard and others were 




Sffe Srcu^fif Cfiristmos 

playing away with hammer and 
trowel upon the Ledbetter cabin. 
They repaired the roof, they ce- 
mented into place the loose stones of 
the fireplace, and topped out the 
fallen chimney; between the logs 
they spatted clay — taken from the 
road in front but good as imperial 
Caesar’s — and stopped the cracks 
“to keep the wind away.” They 
propped the leaning cow shed and 
before noon an occupant, “mighty 
nigh all Jersey,” was chewing her 
cud, while over her head was stored 
fodder sufficient to keep her chew- 
ing till pastures were green. Her 
neighbour on the other side of a par- 
tition was a Kentucky-bred roan 
mare, which but a few hours ago 
had been the property of Captain 
Campbell; he had appeared upon the 
scene riding a gray and leading the 
roan all saddled and ready for the 
road and had made her comfortable 
in this new home. 



£fk Srou^fif (Sfimtmas 

In durance a heterogeneous col- 
lection of chickens were making one 
another’s acquaintance over a col- 
lation of corn, the only unsociable 
one among them being Aunt Dicey’s 
old black hen; her powers were all 
employed in an effort to rid herself 
of a streamer of red flannel which 
the old lady had tied to her tail to 
discourage her sitting propensities. 

Within doors the Christmas tree 
with its unshed mask still monop- 
olized one room, but in the other 
cheerful hands worked a metamor- 
phosis. Cobwebs, litter, and soil 
disappeared, and furniture, country 
made but adapted to its purpose, 
took its place. Upon the tough 
and rough old chestnut floor they 
levelled a bed of hay and, so that 
it was soft as pillows to the tread, 
what matter that each breadth of 
the rag carpet they spread upon it 
showed different tones of home- 
made dyes and the weave of a dif- 


©fe Srou^fif (ifimtmos 

ferent loom? In one corner they 
corded together a bedstead in the 
good old fashion of their great-grand- 
parents, and the bed they reared 
upon it was a marvel. There was 
a mattress of oat straw and one of 
corn-husks, a bed of stripped hens’ 
feathers and one of geese feathers, 
and bolsters and pillows in numbers 
sufficient to accommodate a family 
of hydras. Aunt Dicey furnished 
blankets spun and woven by her own 
hands from wool of her own shearing, 
and among a collection of quilts 
was a wonderful one of old Mis’ 
Jimson’s piecing. It contained, by 
actual count, three thousand one 
hundred and seventy-nine pieces and 
she called it “The Foundation of 
the Great Deep.” When at last 
that bed was made up, the turkey 
red cherubs on the pillow-shams 
(almost the only shams that mod- 
ernity had introduced among those 
artless people) lay very close to the 



^iV 


Srou^fif (Sfimtmas 

rafters. Its makers viewed it with 
admiration and complacency, but 
Deacon Higgins looked dubious: 

“They’re a tollable spry old 
couple,” he said, “but” — and he 
wheeled a barrel of potatoes along- 
side as a suggestion of means of 
getting into bed. 

It would take a readier pen than 
mine to enumerate and describe 
all the gifts that were brought to 
that plenishing. The cupboard door 
refused to close upon the array 
of ham, hominy, and honey (the 
three h’s of the mountaineer), the 
salt-rising bread, and the soda 
biscuit. 

Major Greenlee was a carpenter. 
For half a day he planed, sawed, 
and hammered in a corner and when 
his work took form it was a capacious 
meal bin. When bagfuls of corn 
meal had been emptied into it till 
it was “plumb full” they all sur- 
veyed it with satisfaction and “reck- 


'M 



£fte Src^fif (Sfimtmas 

oned the gourd wouldn’t scrape the 
bottom of that before spring.” 

All day long pedestrians and 
vehicles had been coming and going 
before the old house as never before 
in its history and yet when the sun 
had set the sky on fire behind the 
Bald, the gathered people were still 
awaiting an arrival. 

They scanned a mountain road 
above them, visible only in short 
lengths where it emerged from the 
forests into the clearings. 

“I see ’em!” a far-sighted old 
man shouted with a boy’s enthusiasm, 
“ I see Colonel Ledbetter’s white 
mules! Now they’re behind May’s 
Peak, you’ll see ’em come out on 
t’other side.” 

And so they watched them from 
point to point and every time they 
came into view a squad ran in to 
re-inspect the cabin and see that 
every thing was in order. 

At last the white mules stood 



£fimtmos 

before the door. Colonel Ledbetter 
and Grover Cleveland sat on the 
front seat of the wagon, and on 
chairs behind them sat Preacher 
Carr and his wife. 

Strong hands assisted the wife to 
alight, but the preacher sprang over 
the wheel to greet his people. They 
crowded round him and the young 
cried, “ Merry Christmas/’ and the 
old said, “ Welcome Home.” 

They seated the pair beside their 
old beloved fireside. They were 
eight years older than when they 
had left it. The preacher had “held 
his own,” but when they took off 
the good wife’s bonnet her hair 
showed very white. A tender hand 
smoothed it. 

“We are growing old,” said the 
preacher, but they told him that 
the gospel that he preached and 
lived would never grow old. They 
told him too of repairs to be made 
in the old church; it would look 



'8^'lBfio Urcu^fif (Sfiriatmos 

just as it used to look but over the 
door there would be the inscription: 

THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL 

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all 
thy heart and with all thy soul and with all 
thy mind and thy neighbour as thyself. 

The tree was stripped; the white 
mules were headed homeward; old 
man Ledbetter gathered up his reins 
and a tired little lad nestled close 
to his side. 

“Wake up, Grover Cleveland, 
wake up! Don’t you hear ’em 
singing! Jine in, Grover Cleveland, 
jine in!” 

Within the cabin a chorus swelled; 
without, one thin little voice piped 
free and clear: 

“ Crown Him, crown Him, crown Him, 
Lord of all.” 



S3i* Brou^fif Cfimtmas 


UNCONSCIOUS MENTALITY 


What their acquaintances called 
an “ understanding,” existed betwen 
Arsula Jordan and Thaddeus Gar- 
rett and he had taken her with him 
up on the mountain to consult Dan 
Cutter about hauling the timber 
for a new house. Their horse, 
Beauregard, having taken the road 
leisurely, eleven o’clock found them 
winding along the downhill road but 
still two miles from their homes 
in the village. 

On their right the Junaluska 
swirled between its wooded banks. 
The moon was on their right too, 



©k Srou^fif (SKriatnuw 

throwing shadows across their road, 
dense or skeleton, as evergreen or 
deciduous trees obstructed its 
radiance. 

“I think I see things a-skulkin’ 
’cross the road,” said Arsula, crowd- 
ing Thad more closely; “do you 
reckon any wild-cats could have 
come down off the Bald?” 

“It’s only the shadders a-shiftin’ 
theirselves when the wind bends 
the trees; I didn’t reckon you was 
that scary, Suly; why there’s nothin’ 
to be scairt of; Fm here Suly! And 
/ ain’t scairt of anything that travels 
these yer mountings — leastwise not 
of anything in flesh and blood.” 

“Well I ain’t scart of anything 
that isn't flesh and blood.” 

“You say you ain't?" 

“La, no; I don’t ^ b’lieve in 
ha’nts.” 

“You say you don't?" 

“No I don’t; I b’lieve that when 
a body’s once plumb dead and 



|fpj Zfc Swujfif Cfirtetmos 

buried in the ground, he ain’t goin’ 
to show hisself on the top side of 
the earth again till judgment day. 

“Oh lawdy!” the ejaculation was 
only aspirated, and Thad brought 
Beauregard to a stand without speak- 
ing to him. They were at a bend of 
the road where it crossed the river. 
Above the ford, dark hemlocks 
arched the stream and the foot log 
lay in their dense shadow. Upon 
it something moved like a pale gray 
cloud, not outlined against the black- 
ness, but softly blending with it. 

Beauregard saw it too and pricked 
up his ears. Thad wound the reins 
round his right hand and even 
brought his left into action though 
with a soft apology to Suly: 

“Looks like I might want all the 
hands I’ve got to hold him. You 
take a tight holt of me,” he coun- 
selled under his breath and, as the 
spectre neared the farther side, pro- 
ceeded chidingly: “It’s powerful 


I 



15^106© (Sfaristmafi 

triflin’, Suly, to go to talkin’ ’bout 
ha’nts when you’re out in the woods 
at night — it’s tollable sure to call 
’em up” — a rustling among the 
dry leaves under the bushes changed 
the course of his remarks. 

“If the durn thing ’ud move a 
little faster, I’d drive into the water 
and stand a spell; witches and 
ha’nts and all them things is shy 
of water.” There was a closer 
scurry among the leaves and at a 
twitch of the reins Beauregard drew 
them into the ford and stopped 
there in obedience to another silent 
signal. 

Above the rustling they heard 
a panting breath, and another ghost, 
a nimbler one, was on the log, a 
light, flying shadow against the dark, 
stationary ones. 

“Sho,” said Suly, “it’s only a 
dog.” She started to whistle but 
Thad clapped his hand over her 
mouth : 



“For gracious sake, Suly, don’t 
do that — it’s awful darin’.” 

She was gurgling and spurting 
in an effort to regain her right 
of free speech when together the 
apparitions seemed to slip off the 
log upon the other side. 

“I tell you it’s Colonel Ledbetter’s 
Dixie,” she cried as a dog frisked 
out into the moonlight; “and sure’s 
you’re born that’s little Grover 
Cleveland I and he’s walkin’ in his 
sleep again — poor little soul! Git 
up Beau!” She clutched at the 
reins, but Thad caught her hand. 

“Poor little soul!” she repeated. 
“His gran’daddy’d go plumb dis- 
tracted if he knowed that little 
soul was out on the mountings this 
time o’ night; nothin’ on him either, 
I reckon, but just his little shirt! 
Thad, if you don’t drive on right 
now, I’ll jump into the crick, I vow 
I will! I want to get my hands on 
him — poor little soul!” 



Vik 


Sftc 35rou^fit Cfimtmas 

When Beauregard trailed out upon 
the other side Suly leaped to 
the ground. “I want to see how 
he looks when he’s took this-a-way.” 

The boy was several rods ahead 
trudging abstractedly along, his 
little, faded, blue-checked shirt 
playing about his knees, his bare 
feet taking the road unhesitatingly, 
his half-closed eyes looking neither 
right nor left nor seemingly be- 
fore him. Curious, pitiful, Arsula 
walked beside him for a few steps 
in silence. He didn’t hear her nor 
the creak of the wagon behind her. 
His physical senses were in sus- 
pension. He was intently acting 
out some dream that dominated 
his little brain. 

Head and tail adroop, Dixie was 
following so closely that now and 
again his muzzle touched the little 
loosely hanging hand. He seemed 
to take no more notice of Arsula as 
she came abreast than did his child 




ass 

©fc tBrou^fif (£firi$tmas 

master; but he was not walking in 
his sleep, for, though his dejected 
head never swerved, his eyes turned 
sidewise in their sockets and his lips 
wrinkled in very unbecoming folds 
above his teeth. 

“ Grover Cleveland,” Suly spoke 
softly, for, despite her brave com- 
mon sense, she felt awed in this 
presence of a ruling, supernatural 
mentality; besides she wanted to 
spare the little favourite the shock 
of a too sudden awakening. But 
the boy walked on. 

44 Grover Cleveland, oh, Grover 
Cleveland!” she said more em- 
phatically and gently put out her 
hand to take him by the shoulder. 

44 Gr-r-r-r-r-r!” said Dixie. 

“Now look here Dixie Ledbetter,” 
she scolded severely, 44 you needn’t 
go to putting on any such airs as 
that when I’m around. I wouldn’t 
do Grover Cleveland mean a mite 
sooner’n you would, and you know 



‘Botj.'Uifio Srou^fif (Efimtmos 

it. And more than that, if I’d 
been in your place Pd have found 
some way to w r ake him up before 
he’d tramped this far in the cold. 
And more than that, t’other side 
the ford you went tearin’ off after 
a rabbit or a ’possum or a coon, 
and left him to find his way all by 
hisself. Now you get over there 
and don’t you say no more to me!” 

Ashamed of his shortcomings or 
awed by her gestures, which were 
imperious, Dixie slunk to the other 
side of his master who, partially 
recovered by the unusual tones, 
came to a stand dazed and 
trembling. 

“Poor little soul!” she said drop- 
ping to her knees and putting her 
arms about him. “Wake up, dear, 
and don’t you be scairt a mite, for 
it’s only Suly; you know Suly, 
don’t you?” her voice broke and a 
tear or two ran over her cheeks. 

The child, coming slowly back to 








consciousness, gazed blankly into 
her face, then turned and peered 
into the woods, drawing his breath 
in hard, dry sobs. Then he recog- 
nized Dixie and felt of his tattered 
ears with a weakly caressing motion. 

“Yes, Dixie’s here,” coaxed Suly, 
“and I’m here and Thad’s here with 
the wagon and we’re goin’ to carry 
you right home to your gran’daddy.” 

By now Thaddeus was beside 
them. “Well, what about it!” was 
all he could say, but he acted 
promptly upon Suly’s bidding and 
lifted the boy into the wagon. 

Suly wrapped him in a time r worn 
blanket of confederate gray that had 
been doing duty as a cushion and 
set him between them. 

“Now where was you a-goin’ to?” 
interrogated the amazed Thaddeus, 
taking up the reins and driving 
slowly on. 

“I — don’t — know,” sobbed the 
child. 



S3k 3rou^fif (Sfiristmos 

“Why he was going home,” kindly 
assisted Suly. 

“Where have you been at?” per- 
sisted Thaddeus. 

“I — don’t — know.” 

“Well how’d you git here, any- 
way?” 

“Now Thad, you quit pesterin’ 
him,” commanded Suly. 

By now the boy was quite him- 
self and making desperate efforts 
to breathe without sobbing. “It’s 
powerful mizzable to be borned with 
ways that you can’t help,” he fal- 
tered, and the girl essayed to change 
the current of his thoughts. 

“You knowed your Aunt Carliny 
and little Jakey had come back 
here to live, didn’t you, Grover 
Cleveland?” 

“She done gran’daddy mean,” 
answered the boy and added after 
a long, tremulous breath, “Jakey’s 
shoes is wore out.” 

They drove on in silence. When 


$lk Brou^fif (£firiatinas 

the boy had become quiet and too 
sleepy, Arsula believed, to take 
notice of what she was saying, she 
ventured to relieve her mind of some 
of its distracting emotions. 

“If Carliny was where she’d 
ought to be, a-keepin’ house for her 
father, this little soul’d never get 
out of the house at night without 
her knowin’ it — I’m plumb sure 
of that. To think of her livin’ 
away off up there in that gully where 
nary somebody passes, month in 
and month out, in a ole hut with 
nothin’ but a dirt floor and no 
window; and chinks between the 
logs that you can put your hand 
into and her father the best-off man 
round yer! What you reckon 
he’d say if they was found froze 
plumb to death ? And he such a 
powerful pious man and a-standin’ 
way up high in the church! Free- 
handed too — where he takes a notion 
— givin’ the preacher his rent free 



(fliriatmos 

and all the wood he’s a mind to cut 
and haul and all the apples and 
corn and potatoes he’s a mind to 
harvest; and a-pilin’ up fodder 
stacks close to ole Mis’ Jimson’s 
fence and a-pullin’ out a rail with 
his own hands so’s her ole cow can 
get her head through and help 
herself. 

“Carliny told me with her own 
lips that after she and her boy had 
come all the way from Yancey 
County — mighty nigh every step 
afoot too — her father wouldn’t let 
her in. She wouldn’t have come — 
for she’s got along tollable since 
she’s been a widow — only but she 
heard that he and Grover Cleveland 
wasn’t doin’ any good a house- 
keepin’ by theirselves; and it hurt 
her powerful to think that her 
sister Missouri’s little boy wasn’t 
gettin’ the right kind of care. 

“Everybody’s clean done out 
about it. The preacher, he set out 



Erou^fif (£firi$tmas 

to labour with him, but Colonel 
Ledbetter he give him to understand 
that he was oversteppin’ his author- 
ity and since then nary neighbour 
darst speak up. But I’d give a 
pretty to tell Colonel Ledbetter 
what I think of him, and I aim to 
do it this very night.” 

“ Don’t you, Suly; ole man Led- 
better ain’t pleasant to talk to 
when he’s riled.” 

There came the sound of some one 
tearing through the woods, and 
Thad brought Beauregard to a sud- 
den stand. “Here we are,” he 
shouted. 

“ You-all got him!” called a quaver- 
ing voice out of the darkness. 

“Got him sure-’nough, Colonel 
Ledbetter. Captured him way off 
down by the ford!” 

“I been trampin’ the woods for 
a hour lookin’ for him and I’m 
hoarse as a crow callin’ for him. 
Is he dressed up much?” 


©te Srou^fif Cfimtmas 

“Not much. Some durn fools 
would have took him for a ha’nt 
but I don’t never run from nothin’ 
and Suly here, she’s some spunky too.” 

They drove slowly to the house 
the old man keeping abreast. The 
door stood open and from within 
shone the light of a flickering 
hearth fire. 

Grover Cleveland shed his blanket, 
sprang over the wheel while it was 
yet in motion, and fled into the house 
and out of sight. 

The old man chuckled. “The 
little feller’s right much ashamed of 
hisself when he’s found out in one 
of his spells. I reckon he cried 
some when you-all woke him up — 
he gen’ally does.” 

“Them that’s had nothin’ to cry 
for’s the ones that’s done the cryin’,” 
teased Thad. 

“I don’t care if I did,” said Suly 
preparing to accept the invitation 
to “stop in by a spell.” “It must 


S3® 

83k Srou^fif (Qinetmaa 

be a mighty nasty feelin , to wake 
up in the woods at night and not 
know how you got there.” 

“So it is, so it is,” said Colonel 
Ledbetter leading the way into the 
house. “I ain’t no mind to be stern 
with him, for he comes true and 
honest by the trick. I done it 
myself when I was a boy.” 

He replenished the fire and lit 
a candle. 

“He sleeps right there betwixt 
me and the wall,” he pointed to a 
bed in the corner, “and I can’t 
contrive how he manages to give 
me the slip so often; he’s got some 
sort of sleepin’ slyness that he ain’t 
no more notion of when he’s awake, 
than a angel. Barricadin’ the door 
ain’t no good. One night I tied 
him fast to my wrist so’s he couldn’t 
move without wakin’ me up, but 
that seemed to hurt the little fel- 
low’s feelin’s powerful an’ I didn’t 
try it again.” 


tTfU ‘Baj.HSfto Brou^fif Cfiriatmas 

Nothing was to be seen of Grover 
Cleveland. Suly went to the bed. 

“I should think he’d smother to 
death,” she said, “he’s drawed the 
Valley of the Mississippi clean over 
his head and he’s fast asleep.” She 
arranged a little breathing place 
for him. 

The old man came and stood 
beside her. 

“I helped quilt this quilt,” she 
went on, carefully folding it away 
from the face of the child, “it 
was the first quiltin’ party I ever 
went to and I took the tuck out of 
my frock to go. This was the first 
Valley of the Mississippi ever seen 
round yer and Missouri was mighty 
proud of it; she had the pattern 
sent from Georgy.” 

“Them blue pieces over there,” 
said the old man, “is pieces of her 
frock; it was a store frock; and these 
yer streaked pieces on this side” (he 
traced them with an unsteady fin- 



£fk “Sou Ififio 2Jrcv 5f Cfirtetmas 

Qy 

ger),” was my wife’s. Grover Cleve- 
land, he calls that side his, because 
it’s pieces of his mother’s frock, and 
this side mine and he won’t never 
get into bed till his half’s on his 
side.” 

Suly lifted a corner of the quilt 
into the light; “ Here’s some of 
Carliny’s frock,” she led, but he 
would not follow. 

“I bought Grover Cleveland a 
pair of boots this mornin’ and he 
was the proudest little somebody 
you ever looked at. Now where is 
them boots at?” — he was looking 
under the bed — “he set ’em up 
right here as careful as if they was 
glass and they was there after he 
went to sleep.” 

This owner in fee-simple of eleven 
hundred acres of land, more or less, 
was living in one room and dishes, 
cooking utensils, clothing, shovels, 
rakes and various paraphernalia of 
his farming and housekeeping opera- 


©k 25rwu)6f (Sfirntmas 

tions were littered about in be- 
wildering confusion. He moved 
everything in his search for the 
boots, Arsula assisting. 

“Carliny’s a mighty good house- 
keeper,” she remarked as she shook 
out and hung up some wearing 
apparel that had been piled in a 
corner. “ She’d make things look 
a heap different if she was here.” 

“Was he barefoot when you come 
acrost him?” 

“Yes. Carliny, she’d manage it 
so that poor little soul wouldn’t 
go caperin’ about at night.” 

“Them boots has taken to their- 
selves wings.” 

“I’m afraid Carliny’s goin’ to 
freeze to death up there this winter 
— or starve — one.” 

“Them boots had blue tops; they 
was Grover Cleveland’s own choice; 
blue always takes his eye.” 

“It’s time we was movin’ on, 
Suly,” said Thad going to the door. 



©k 3c^l8fio 1$r«u<)6f (Sfiriatmoa 

The girl had to stop beating the 
bush. “Carliny and Jakey ain’t 
a-doin’ any good up there, Colonel 
Ledbetter; they’re both a-lookin’ 
puny. She wants you and you want 
her, and Grover Cleveland, he wants 
her powerful, poor little soul! 
’Tain’t right, nor Christian, nor 
human, nor common sense, nor horse 
sense, nor nonsense, nor any kind 
of sense for you to be so set. She’s 
your own flesh” — she stopped, awed 
by his steady stare at her. 

“You go home,” he said, “and 
you sew the tuck back into that ar 
frock you wore to Missouri’s quiltin’ 
and you wear it and be a little gal 
again till you’re smart enough not 
to handle no such talk as that in 
my house. Carliny, she made her 
own bed and thar she must lie. I 
told her when she married that ar 
no-’count that she shouldn’t never 
put foot into house of mine again; 
and you go ask your daddy if he 



©fe Srou^fif (Sfiristma* 

ever knowed a Ledbetter to go back 
on his word. And I’m bringin’ up 
Grover Cleveland the same way; 
he believes like I do; he thinks 
Carliny’d ought to go her own 
gait now.” 

Arsula went out of the house with 
her hand to her eyes. 

“ I ’low you mean right,” he said 
softening a little, “and I’m a heap 
o’ times obliged to you for bringin’ 
him home, but you ain’t no call to 
go to interferin’ in my family affairs.” 

All the next day Grover Cleveland 
hunted for his boots. “I sot ’em 
right here,” he said, “and I ain’t 
touched ’em since.” In the house 
he had turned every thing over and 
over again, had gone through the 
barn and out-houses in the same way 
and at sundown was searching the 
woods when Arsula a-mule-back rode 
up to the house. Colonel Led- 
better was chopping wood but he 
put down his axe and went to her. 



©k 

“I’ve come from Carliny’s,” she 
said, “and here’s them blue-top 
boots. Carliny found ’em outside 
her door this morning and she’d no 
more notion than the dead whose 
they was or how they got there, 
till I told her ’bout last night.” 

The old man turned them in 
his hands confusedly. “If Grover 
Cleveland took these boots up thar 
last night,” he said, “his sleepin’ 
opinion is a heap different from his 
wakin’ opinion. When he’s awake 
he ’grees with me; he thinks if she 
was so set on goin’ her own gait, 
now she’d ought to keep on 
goin’ it.” 

Arsula rode off and he went into 
the house and tucked the boots out 
of sight. 

By the by his grandson came in 
dispirited and weary, ate a little 
supper, and crept away under his 
side of the Valley of the Mississippi. 

“He ain’t eatin’ as much as he’d 



Site Srou^fif (Sfirtetmaa 

ought to,” mused his grandfather 
as he scraped the remnant of their 
meal upon the hearth for Dixie. 
“If Missouri was alive she’d make 
somethin’ to tempt his appetite, 
but I ’low I ain’t got the sleight 
o’ cookin’.” He went to the bed 
and tucked the quilt closely about 
the child’s shoulders. 

“He’ll lay quiet enough to-night; 
I never knowed him to get up two 
nights runnin’. Seem like he gets 
scairt and keeps still a spell. I’m 
mighty nigh beat out myself, bein’ 
up so late yesterday evenin’; I 
reckon I can sleep without any 
rockin’,” and he went to bed. 

He awoke after a three-hours’ 
nap. The room was cold and his 
first thought was to see if the Valley 
of the Mississippi was doing its duty 
by his grandson. It was not; and 
when he attempted to pull it into 
place he found there was no grand- 
son there; neither did there appear 




33 

2 ^ 108 o Brou^fif Cfimtmas 

to be a complement of the Valley 
of the Mississippi. 

“Grover Cleveland! Grover Cleve- 
land !” he shouted and the only 
answer was a stampede of rats 
from the hearth. He got up, 
lighted his candle, and held it low 
over the bed. The boy was surely 
gone. He pulled the quilt toward 
him and as he did so the big old shears 
that served them in their various 
household operations fell to the 
floor. The quilt had been cut 
through from end to end; the side 
containing the striped pieces had 
been left in its place but the blue 
had disappeared! 

He got into his clothes and hurry- 
ing out among the shadows of the 
moonlight night took his direction 
with the certainty of prescience. 
When he set foot upon the highroad, 
he began to follow by sight, for, 
excepting where the shadows were 
heaviest, he could discern the little 



©te <£Rn&tnias 

trudging figure of Grover Cleveland, 
its outline marred by something slung 
in man-like fashion across his shoul- 
der and by the dog following closely. 

He didn’t try to overtake the 
child, but, though the road was 
crooked, he never let him get out of 
his sight for a second. Sometimes 
in dark, rough places the man stum- 
bled. “Seem k like some spirit’s 
a-guidin’ the boy,” he said. “He 
don’t ’pear to make a false step”; 
and, like Suly, he was awed. 

As they neared the ford he les- 
sened the distance between them 
but, though his heart stood still 
when the boy got upon the foot log 
(for the stream was running high) 
he made no sign but to take off his 
coat ready for a plunge if emergency 
called for it. 

They crossed in close procession, 
the little sleeper, the dog, and the 
old man. Upon the other side the 
leader kept the highroad for a fur- 


Sfte 13oylMo 33rouqfif (Efiriatmas 

qJ 

long or more and then, where a 
rough culvert conducted a small 
branch into the Junaluska, turned 
into a rocky gully and ascended by 
a rough, steep path, the others fol- 
lowing. Two or three times Dixie, 
turning to the old man, entreated with 
tail and eyes for an explanation of 
these strange proceedings, but by pan- 
tomime was ordered into line again. 

Upward and onward they went, 
no sound accompanying but the 
tramp of their feet, the rustle of 
leaves as some frightened animal 
darted from its lair, the gurgle of 
the brook, and the recoil of the 
low-hanging branches which two of 
them nimbly dodged, but the old 
man put aside with his hands. 

At last they came out upon a 
table of shale, dry and white in the 
moonlight. On its edge, backed by 
a cliff, stood a forlorn cabin, built 
for a stable one might have thought, 
but for the pile of clay and stones 



(SRmtmas 

that showed at which end of it a 
chimney had once stood. 

Straight up to its sagging door 
marched the little sleeper, laid the 
blue-blocked half of the Valley of 
the Mississippi upon the rotten step, 
and then — the silent procession 
“marched down again.” 

Next morning the sun was shining 
through the open doorway and Col- 
onel Ledbetter with an awl and a 
waxed-end was splicing a stj*ap when 
Grover Cleveland sat up in bed 
and rubbed his eyes open with his 
fists. Suddenly he shouted: 

“Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! here’s 
the Valley of the Mississippi cut 
plumb in half and your part’s here 
and” — he wriggled to the floor 
and grabbed his gran’daddy by the 
shoulder — “where’s my half gone 
to, gran’daddy?” Without wait- 
ing for an answer the child went 
back to the bed and made a more 
thorough examination. 


£ffe Brotujfif Cfimtmos 

“Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! don’t 
you reckon ’twas a mighty low-down 
somebody to do that trick?” 

“I ’low ’twas, Grover Cleveland 
— that is, if he knowed what he 
was doin’, ’twas.” 

The boy’s eyes grew bigger and 
bigger.” 

“Maybe you been a-performin’ 
in your sleep again, Grover Cleve- 
land.” 

“No I ain’t gran’daddy, no I 
ain’t,” the blue eyes were very 
earnest. “I done been in bed close 
up to you all night.” 

“Maybe you have, Grover Cleve- 
land, but ’pears like you overslept 
yourself a spell this morning. 
There’s the pone and some bacon 
keeping warm for you by the fire.” 

Puzzled that his grandfather didn’t 
take a more active interest in the 
calamity that had befallen him, 
the boy ran half-dressed to the door. 

“Gran’daddy! gran’daddy! what 


©k Urou^fif Cfimtmas 

you got Bonaparte and Butterfly 
geared up to the cart for?” 

“I been down to Junaluska. 
And now you eat your breakfast 
quick, and we’ll go hunt up your 
half of the Valley of the Mississippi; 
and you put on them blue-top boots 
Grover Cleveland; them old shoes 
lets the water in.” 

“Why them boots is done gone!” 
he shook his grandfather as if to 
wake him up, “don’t you ’member 
— oh-ee-ee,” he went diving under 
the bed and, coming up again with 
the blue-tops hugged close to his 
breast and another pair in his hand, 
stood before his grandfather dumb 
as to the vocal organs but his eyes 
questioning wildly. 

“Them red-tops is for Jakey.” 

“You aim to carry them boots up 
to him, gran’daddy?” 

“No, gran’son, I aim to bring 
Jakey down to the boots.” 

In the Ledbetter home that 


Sfk Cfirtetmos 

afternoon Carolina dropped the 
broom as two little boys came frol- 
icking about her, and capturing 
the larger one, she squeezed him 
rapturously! 

“If you ever get out of this house 
at night again, Grover Cleveland,” 
she said, “you’ll be smarter than I 
am; that’s what.” 


Sfi* Cfimlmos 


IV 

OLD-TIME RELIGION 

Autumn in the Southern Appala- 
chians. 

The little boy sat on the prize 
pumpkin that his grandfather had put 
in front of the house to challenge 
the comment of passers-by. He was 
chewing sorghum-cane and singing 
in snatches : 

“ Give me that old-time aligion, 

Give me that old-time aligion, 

It is good enough for me. 

It was good for Paul and Silas, 

It is good enough for me ” 

His Aunt Carolina stood on the 
porch spinning stocking yarn, while 



Stic 10fio Brciwfif 0ri9tma5 

near her sat his grandfather, cobbling 
shoes as diligently and contentedly 
as if born and bred to that lowly 
occupation instead of being a fore- 
handed farmer holding county and 
township offices. 

“ Grover Cleveland certainly is 
a good singer,” said Carolina. “He 
can carry the tune of every last 
hymn he hears ’em sing down to 
church and he can carry the words 
too, clean up to twenty verses I 
reckon, and what he can’t remember 
he can make up.” 

The old man laid down his im- 
plements, bowed himself to his 
“studyin’ ” attitude, and looked 
fondly and proudly at his grandson. 
Carolina let her eyes range the 
high-road. 

“Here comes old man Sumter 
a-drivin’ that ar’ Sal he bought over 
to Nantahala. She was round and 
plump as ary one of our mules when 
he brought her here, but now I declare 



ViV 


‘Bgj.HSfto Cfimtmas 

she’s thregauntedest mule that travels 
the road. I reckon he’s jerked and 
jawed the flesh right off her bones.” 

“You say Cap’n Sumter’s a- 
comin’?” asked her father, and he 
got up and went out to the road side. 
At his signal his neighbour twitched 
Sal to a stand and stared at him 
without a relaxing line in his hard 
old face or a gleam of friendliness in 
his eyes. 

Colonel Ledbetter had pleasant 
information to impart. He lifted 
one foot to the hub of the clumsy 
fore wheel, rested an arm across his 
knees and looked hard into the sandy 
road lest his eyes should forestall 
his tongue as the bearer of good news. 

“You sold me them ’leven wa’nut 
trees on Sundown Hill for thirty 
dollars apiece, Cap’n Sumter?” 

“I reckon that’s ’bout how the 
case stands,” the grim face looked 
steadily at the smiling one and not 
a line softened. 


©k Srou^fif Cftristmofi 

‘‘Well, sir,” the pleasant eyes 
looked up with a lively sparkle that 
might have been borrowed from 
Grover Cleveland’s own, “I hadn’t 
examined them trees as close as 
I ought to, and ’pears like you hadn’t 
either; there’s a little mistake about 
one of ’em and I expected we’d 
better rectify it right now ” 

“G’long!” old man Sumter hit the 
mule a “lick,” saying viciously as 
she sprang forward, “You got the 
timber and I got the money and I 
don’t rectify no mistakes now; you’re 
old enough to have knowed what 
you was gittin’ ’fore you paid for 
it.” 

“Jes’ as you please Sam Sumter, 
jes’ as you please”; the indignant 
old gentleman made a gesture as 
one who gladly washes his hands 
of a responsibility and yielding to 
curiosity Sumter turned toward 
him. 

Colonel Ledbetter didn’t pause 




vFfk Srcu^fif (£firi$tmos 

in his slow walk toward the house 
but he said in a tone of supreme 
indifference: 

“I’ve had my men up there 
a-fellin’ them trees and the biggest of 
’em, the one furthest up the hill, 
is a curly walnut. Five years ago 
I sold one like it for twelve hundred 
dollars and I could have give you 
points ’bout sellin’ yours; but seein’ 
you don’t rectify no mistakes, why 
that’s all there is about it and we’ll 
stick to the bargain.” 

Again Sal was jerked to a stand 
and twisting round on a pivotal 
hand pressed to the seat, old man 
Sumter regarded his interlocutor 
with intense concern. But Colonel 
Ledbetter proceeded to the house 
without looking right or left and, 
disappointed and ireful, his neigh- 
bour went on his way. 

Colonel Ledbetter resumed his 
seat and his grandson came and 
leaned against him: 


©k Brou^fif Cfimtmos 

“Looks like he’s plumb mad, 
gran’daddy.” 

“Yes he is, Grover Cleveland, 
he’s plumb mad and he’s been so 
ever since I’ve knowed him and 
that’s mighty nigh sixty years. 
He’s so rarin’ mad that when the 
Lord throws a good thing in his way 
he’s too mad to see it. Now like 
that ar wa’nut; any man that was 
a-lookin’ out for virtues instid of 
^fects would have discovered that 
’twas a curly. But old man Sum- 
ter’s mad at every thing under the 
sun whether it’s human or beast or 
tree or stone; and he’s mad at ’em 
all the time and he’s so mad that 
he won’t take no notice to ’em. 
Jes’ like he wouldn’t take notice to 
me jes’ now, when I was goin’ to 
put more than a thousand dollars 
right into his hand; it would mighty 
nigh paid off that ar mortgage 
that he’s been skinnin’ himself 
to pay int’rest on these twenty 


Srou^fif Cfiristmas 

years — for he jes’ keeps a-goin’ 
behind and a-goin’ behind for no 
airthly reason that I can see but 
jes’ ’cause he’s so mad all the time 
that he can’t study any of the arts 
of peace. Why his very crops fails 
because he hates ’em so. Grover 
Cleveland, don’t you never go to 
bein’ mad at every body all the time. 
Tain’t Christian, an’ more’n that it 
kind o’ spiles your aim so that you 
don’t bring down no game/’ 

“Was he borned that-a-way, 
gran’daddy?” 

“I expect he was, Grover Cleve- 
land, I expect he was.” 

“I’m mighty sorry for him”; the 
little fellow twisted his hands to- 
gether and looked afar; “it’s power- 
ful mizzable to be borned with ways 
that you can’t help.” 

The old man’s attention and 
sympathy were his in an instant. 
“Don’t you go to takin’ on about 
sleep walkin’, Grover Cleveland,” 



©fc <£firi*tmas 

he said drawing his arm tightly 
about the child; “ you’re bound to 
outgrow that before long.” 

“I paid him,” the old man went 
on addressing his daughter, “I paid 
him more for them trees than ary 
other somebody had offered him, 
jes’ because I was willin’ to help 
make up to him the loss of his barn 
that burnt down; but he didn’ thank 
me for it.” 

“What’s curly wa’nuts good for, 
gran’daddy?” 

“They’re good for veneerin’, 
Grover Cleveland. You see this is 
how ’tis: they don’t saw the logs 
through like they do down to Camp- 
bell’s saw-mill but they saw ’em, 
round and round, into sheets mighty 
nigh as thin as writin’-paper. There 
hadn’t ought to be any cuts or holes 
in the log, so that they can make 
big smooth sheets of it, and they’ll 
saw that log up till there ain’t a 
core left that’s as thick as my arm.” 



i 


©fc Cfiri&tmo* 

“What can they make out of 
timber as thin as writin’-paper, 
gran’daddy?” 

Then to the extent of his own 
imperfect knowledge of the veneer- 
ing process, the old man explained 
it to the child. 

“So far as I know, there’s only 
three veneering mills in the country. 
When I sold my tree I wrote a letter 
to all three of ’em and told ’em what 
I had to sell and they wrote back 
and made me a offer — only that 
Kentucky fellow, he’s the nearest 
by and he made out like he had 
business in this direction and he 
stopped round to see it; and ’twas 
him I sold the tree to. 

“And I aimed to work it jes’ 
that-a-way for Cap’n Sumter; I 
aimed to write the letters for him — 
for he ain’t a mite handy with a 
pen, Sam Sumter ain’t (a education 
is a mighty handy thing to get hold 
of Grover Cleveland), and get in 


the three bids for the tree and let 
him take up with ary one he see fit.” 

“You’ve sure done your duty by 
him now, daddy,” said Carolina, 
“and that tree is yours anyway 
you can fix it.” 

“Is it yours, gran’daddy?” 

“It’s mine by rule o’ law, Grover 
Cleveland, but I don’t know as it’s 
mine by that ar golden rule that 
you and Preacher Carr let on to 
know so much about.” 

His doting grandparent consid- 
ered the child a prodigy of ethical 
understanding, or “jedgment,” as 
he would have expressed it, and, 
although he was continually plying 
him with information and advice 
on all sorts of subjects, it was 
no uncommon thing for him to 
consult the little fellow even in 
matters of moment. It was as if 
he stored his maxims and admoni- 
tions into the laboratory of the 
child’s mind and then requisitioned 


no 


it for them in convenient form for 
practical use. 

“ What’s your opinion, Grover 
Cleveland?” 

The child hesitated, his bright face 
raised earnestly to the grizzled one: 

“Me and you, gran’daddy, me 
and you, we don’t want anything 
that ain’t sure ’nough ours; do we?” 

“ No-o sir-ee! That settles it, 
Carliny; Grover Cleveland and me 
we want a golden rule title to every 
thing we claim.” 

So Colonel Ledbetter got his ink 
bottle and pen off the shelf, a sheet and 
a half of writing-paper out of the front 
of the Bible, and three envelopes out 
of the back, and laboriously indited 
the letters to the veneering mills, while 
out in the shadow of the prize pump- 
kin his grandson cracked butternuts 
for the tame gray squirrels. But all 
the while new ideas were whirling 
through the little boy’s head, and they 
concentred in that curly walnut. 


hi 



©k Bgj.1SSo Brot^Sf Cftmtir.os 

That night “when there was 
naught but starre light” a little 
human figure, bareheaded, bare- 
footed, and clad in a single, loosely 
hanging garment came out of the 
Ledbetter house. It proceeded 
noiselessly, though without stealth, 
for it kept in the open, taking the 
middle of the road with a free and 
fearless tread. Though the eyes were 
partly shut and the night was dark, 
it made no false or stumbling step; 
some intuition or spiritual sight or 
maybe an angelic presence was guid- 
ing it. Dixie came yawning and 
stretching to the edge of the porch, 
settled meditatively upon his 
haunches, watched it to the first 
bend in the road, then followed bound- 
ingly until he came abreast when, de- 
murely dropping head and tail, he 
fell behind but kept so close that 
the little wind-blown shirt fluttered 
in his face. 

When half a mile had been travelled 


tTfie Swu^Sf Cfimtmas 

a branching wagon track, scarcely 
discernible even in the daytime, led 
up to some bars in the worm-fence 
that outlined the road. The little 
dreamer climbed over and took the 
rough road beyond without a sign 
of doubt or hesitation. It zig- 
zagged through the woods but 
steadily upward to where those wal- 
nut trees, with a goodly company 
of peers, oak, chestnut, and white- 
wood had crowned a summit. He 
had followed it a few times before, 
but wide-awake beside his grand- 
father in the ox wagon, with Butter- 
fly and Bonaparte for motive power. 
It was overgrown with grass and 
weeds that shed their dew upon 
his little feet and perfumed them 
with pennyroyal and dittany, while 
overhead interweaving branches hid 
even the stars from sight. 

Though tempted from duty’s path 
by many a springing cotton tail, 
Dixie kept close behind his master 



until the sound of an axe came 
thudding through the forest, at 
which he cocked his remnant 
for ears, stood for a second on 
the qui vive, then shot away in the 
direction of the sound. 

He returned panting and, planting 
himself in front of the little sleep- 
walker, tried to head him in a dif- 
ferent direction, but the child only 
swerved and continued his upward 
course. Again the dog headed him 
off, again and again until he had 
turned him quite out of the road way, 
but the boy threaded his way through 
undergrowth and over rocks and 
hummocks as easily as if he had been 
of spiritual rather than material 
substance. 

Finally Dixie grabbed in his teeth 
the border of the little shirt and 
tugged so lustily that his master 
could not advance a single step 
farther, and as he tugged he whined 
in thorough frenzy; and if his lan- 


guage could have been rendered 
into the vernacular it would have 
been : 

“There’s danger ahead, Grover 
Cleveland! There’s a bad old man 
up there, a man that never sees me 
without making a lick at me with 
his stick, and if he does you mean 
and there’s only I left to tell the 
tale, who’ll I tell it to, I’d like to 
know? for there’s not a human 
that’s smart enough to understand 
my language, though I’ve under- 
stood English ever since I was a 
pup. Come back, Grover Cleve- 
land! come back , I say , come back!” 
and with that last “come back,” 
Dixie gave such a sudden and power- 
ful jerk that Grover Cleveland 
came tumbling backward into a 
bed of galax. 

He righted himself and sat there 
with a hand on either side pressing 
the leaves down into the turf, the 
dog crouched close with his paws 







Site Cfimtmos 

across the little bare knees and his 
tongue spasmodically licking the be- 
wildered face. 

The child heaved a slow, sobbing 
sigh or two and became his conscious 
self, a little boy alone at night in 
the dark, silent woods, frightened, 
not by darkness or silence or ap- 
prehension of danger, but by the 
thought of that mysterious power 
that could convey him so far from 
home and gran’daddy, and Aunt 
Carliny without any of their knowl- 
edge or consent. So he laid his 
head upon Dixie’s neck and cried it 
out and then got upon his feet, 
once more a practical little moun- 
taineer with a mind curious to see 
and to understand, a loving heart 
and willing, eager little hands and 
feet to wait upon its promptings. 

He knew that downward must be 
homeward and cautiously (less con- 
fident now than when guided by 
that unconscious mentality) he began 



©k *^1050 Gfimtmas 

to grope for his footing. Then again 
the sound of that axe came cleaving 
the silence and this time Grover 
Cleveland heard it as plainly as 
Dixie did. 

He turned to investigate the phe- 
nomenon, Dixie following content- 
edly now that his master was himself 
again. The undergrowth had become 
thinner as they had ascended and soon 
they came out where great trees rose 
in stately exclusiveness unintruded 
upon by lesser growths. Here the 
darkness was less dense, stars looked 
down through rifts in the leafy 
canopy, and a little farther up the 
hill one fixed star gleamed scarcely 
eight feet from the ground as if inter- 
cepted upon an earthward trip and 
impaled upon a bough. It dis- 
pensed only a dim circle of light, 
but in it the boy could discern the 
figure of the wood chopper, could 
even catch an occasional glint re- 
flected from the blade of the swing- 


in g axe. He had come up against 
a fallen tree and he climbed up and 
sat upon the trunk, hugging his 
knees while he peered into the gloom. 

All at once a suspicion of his 
whereabouts entered his head and 
to confirm it he got off the log and 
made his way to its larger end. 
Yes, there stood the stump from 
which it had been cut but recently 
and green chips littered the ground. 
He explored farther. Nearby lay 
another log, just over there another 
— why they were all about him ! 
He knew perfectly well where he 
was. On old man Sumter’s hill 
and these were his grandfather’s 
walnut trees! 

But that man! Why was he here 
in the dark, dark night chopping 
away with might and main? The 
boy made his way toward him, 
Dixie quiet but alert and as full of 
curiosity as his master. 

That star was a lantern pendant 


118 


from a chestnut limb; its light shone 
upon the man’s face. Why it was 
old man Sumter himself! and that 
log was the curly walnut, for it was 
the one highest on the hillside, and 
he was gashing it all along its length ! 
And he was right mad at that curly 
too (just like gran’daddy said he was 
always mad at everything), for he 
kept talking right ugly to it! 

“Hi!” the child sprang forward 
shouting to the full capacity of his 
sturdy lungs and caught the old 
man by the coat tails. “Wake up! 
oh, wake up! Don’t you see what 
you’re a-doin’!” 

Grover Cleveland tugged and 
shouted, Dixie barked and leaped 
and growled and the echoes multi- 
plied the tumult. Stunned by the 
suddenness of the attack the old man 
let the axe slip from his hand and 
backed round against the log. He 
was feeble, he had been exerting 
himself beyond his strength and he 



vm 


(Sirtetma* 


was frightened too — had it not 
been for Dixie’s very earthly per- 
formance he would have been sure 
he had met up wi;h a ha’nt. 

“What be you anyway?” he asked 
quaveringly, sinking to a seat upon 
the log. 

“Why Fm Grover Cleveland, 
gran’daddy’s grandson.” 

The boy looked the man over with 
a face full of compassion. Here was 
a big man afflicted just as he was, 
and that fellow-feeling that makes 
us all so wondrous kind enthralled 
him. 

“Are you sure you’re broad awake 
now?” he asked coming very close 
and laying his hand upon the old 
man’s knee. “It’s awful to walk 
in your sleep; I feel mighty sorry 
for you.” He scrambled up on the 
log, wriggled himself as close to the 
night-walker as he could get, took 
a coarse, limp old hand in his, and 
patted it. “I certainly am sorry 





“‘What be you anyway?’ he asked quaveringly, sinking 
to a seat upon the log” 


. 

* 






























. 












Sfi* 30g.U5Sio C&mtmas 

for you ’cause I know jes’ how it 
feels to be woked up in the dark, 
away off from home and not know 
how you got there. I walk in my 
sleep too — that’s how I come out 
yer to-night — but you’ve got it 
worse than me, you have; for I 
don’t do mischief when I’m took, 
but you — why-e-e-e!” twisting 
himself about and surveying the 
log — “ you’ve done hacked your 
tree all to pieces and ’twon’t be 
no more good for veneerin’! Gran’- 
daddy says they don’t want nary 
6nag in it. 

“But maybe this ain’t the curly,” 
he peered eagerly into the woods; 
“it ain’t ’less it’s the furtherest 
one up.” 

“This is the curly wa’nut all 
right,” growled Sumter with a malev- 
olent twang unintelligible to the 
child. 

“I certainly am sorry for you. 
Gran’daddy wrote three letters ’bout 


this ye r tree and he was goin’ to 
turn the answers over to you so’t 
you could take up with ary one 
you’d a mind to — that’s what he 
said ” 

“You say he did? Didn’t he 
’low he’d bought the tree fair 
’nough?” 

“That ain’t the way he thought 
about it — and me and gran’daddy, 
you know, we don’t want anything 
that ain’t sure ’nough ours; he 
said you could sell it for enough 
money to pay all you owed. He 
was plumb glad of it and now he’ll 
be mighty nigh as sorry as you and 
me is.” 

For a moment sad, silent thought 
held sway. 

“There’s one good thing about it 
though,” the child tucked his gar- 
ment tightly under his knees, “you 
don’t get out without dressin’ your- 
self, the way I do; you ought to be 
glad about that. Gran’daddy says 


122 


there’s always some good even in 
the baddest things if we watch out 
for it.” 

His companion made no response 
and the boy resumed his role of 
sympathizer. 

“I reckon you was borned that- 
a-way, jes’ like me, and it’s power- 
ful mizzable to be borned with ways 
that you can’t help; and you ain’t 
got any Dixie to watch out for you. 
And Aunt Carliny, she makes me 
sleep with her and Jakey, so’s she 
can catch me at it, but I don’t guess 
you’ve got any Aunt Carliny either.” 

“Naw,” old man Sumter got up 
and reached for his lantern, “I ain’t 
got nary somebody that cares what 
becomes of me.” 

The boy got down off the log and 
pityingly took his hand. 

“Le’s go home,” he said, “I know 
where I be now an’ if you’re kind 
o’ mixed up yet, why I can show 
you the trail,” and he led away as 


123 


»8 

3©tjWo Brou^fif (Qiriatmas 

shamefaced an old sinner as ever 
trod the mountains. 

(Seeing the pair on friendly terms, 
Dixie indulged in a brief interview 
with a ’possum.) 

“As I was a-sayin’,” comforted 
the child as they picked their way 
by the lantern’s light, “it’s power- 
ful mizzable to be borned with ways 
that you can’t help; but don’t you 
go to takin’-on about it, for we’re 
bound to outgrow it — so gran’- 
daddy says. And there’s another 
thing where you’re worse off than 
me: gran’daddy says you was borned 
mad at everybody all the time — 
that must be powerful mizzable too, 
but I reckon you’ll outgrow that too.” 

They parted at Sumter’s door 
and then Grover Cleveland and 
Dixie sped homeward. Noiselessly 
the little fellow entered the house, 
crept into bed beside his Aunt 
Carliny and straightway forgot his 
“mizzable” inheritance. 



Sffe Srou^fif 

But he had it embarrassingly re- 
called to his mind next morning 
at breakfast when Aunt Carliny 
said as she gave him his second 
helping of hominy: 

“Grover Cleveland’s getting right 
good ’bout stayin’ in bed o’ nights; 
he ain’t tried to get up in a dog’s 
age. Of course he couldn’t get up 
without my catchin’ him, for I’m 
always sleepin’ with one eye open, but 
seem like he don’t try any more.” 

“I reckon he’s outgrowin’ them 
kind of capers,” gran’daddy reached 
out, stroked the yellow pate and 
the yellow pate bent lower and 
lower and finally the whole boy 
went down under the table. 

He next appeared tagging dumbly 
at the heels of the old gentleman as 
he was making his morning tour 
among his stock, who, when a sudden 
turn brought them into collision, 
reached behind him and brought 
the boy out of his obscurity. 


£(k Brou^fif Cfimtmas 

“ ’Pears like you ain’t a mite peart 
this morning, Grover Cleveland; you 
got something on your mind?” 

The child bored the soil with 
his toes : 

“I — wasn’t in bed all night, 
gran’daddy, not every minute , I 
wasn’t.” 

“You been a-walkin’ in your 
sleep again?” 

The child nodded guiltily and a 
very awkward pause ensued. Gran’- 
daddy looked serious, but as soon 
as distressful symptoms began to 
develop in the little culprit, he applied, 
as usual, the healing balm of con- 
solation. 

“I wouldn’t take-on about it, 
Grover Cleveland, not a mite, I 
wouldn’t, for you’re plumb sure to 
outgrow it. Gran’daddy used to 
be up to them same tricks but he’s 
outgrowed ’em. I jes’ go to bed 
and I lay there as firm as a island 
in a goose pond and you couldn’t 


©fe (£firi*tmas 

drag me out — not with Butterfly 
and Bonaparte you couldn’t — not 
unless something was the matter with 
Grover Cleveland and he wanted 
me in the night; if he did, if he ever 
does, I’ll shoot out of that bed like 
lightning out of a thunder cloud.” 
And so he coaxed and petted until the 
shamed little face was ready to look 
the world squarely in the eyes again. 

“Where was you at, last night, eh?” 

“When I come to, I was up to 
Sundown Hill where them wa’nut 
trees is.” 

“Was you ’way off there, grand- 
son?” Gran’daddy settled to a 
seat on a wagon tongue and put a 
snug arm about the boy who grew 
suddenly voluble in the recollection 
of stirring times. 

“Hi, gran’daddy! Cap’n Sumter, 
he walks in his sleep jes’ like me! 
He does a heap of things in his sleep! 
An’ he talks right out loud too; 
that’s a heap worse’n me, ain’t it?” 



Sfie Cfimtmas 

“If he does it, it’s a heap worse’n 
you. Did you meet up with him 
last night?” 

“Why he was a-doin’ mischief, 
he was! He was choppin’ up that 
ar curly wa’nut and every lick he 
hit, he says, ‘ Now will you 
bring twelve-hundred dollars for 
veneerin,” and he chopped big holes 
in it!” 

“That curly?” 

“Ye-e-s, that ar one that lays 
furtherest up the hill.” 

The old man loosened his hold of 
the lad and rose slowly to his feet, a 
look on his face that Grover Cleve- 
land had never seen there before 
and that he could only vaguely 
interpret, but it made him feel sorry 
for his companion in misery. So he 
took his grandfather’s hand and as 
they walked toward the house he 
discoursed: 

“He can’t help doin’ things in 
his sleep for he was borned that- 



23k Cfimtmos 

a-way, and he can’t help bein’ mad 
all the time for he was borned that- 
a-way too; and I reckon he feels 
mighty shamed of hisself now — 
that’s the way I feel.” 

Receiving no response he squeezed 
the hand he held in both his own 
demanding recognition of his re- 
iterated sentiment: 

“It’s powerful mizzable to be 
borned with ways that you can’t help.” 

And gran’daddy replied : 

“So it is, Grover Cleveland, so 
it is.” 

For two or three days the lives 
of our heroes ran along in the usual 
quiet channels, and then one morn- 
ing Colonel Ledbetter drove up in 
front of Captain Sumter’s broken- 
spirited-looking dwelling-place. On 
the seat beside him was a “city- 
dressed fellow” and Grover Cleve- 
land swung his legs over the pendant 
tail board. 




3 







Slfe Srou^fif <£fimtmas 

In response to a call old man 
Sumter appeared. 

“This yer man” (the mountaineer 
is apt to be off-hand in his intro- 
ductions), “is the owner of that ve- 
neerin’ mill in Kentucky. He’s 
come to look at that ar curly wa’nut 
and to make you a offer for it; and 
here’s two letters from two other 
men that runs that kind of mills. 
One of ’em bids ’leven-hundred-an’- 
fifty dollars for it and the other a 
hundred or two more.” 

Sumter fumbled with the letters, 
affecting even more than his ha- 
bitual gruffness. 

“Looks like you ain’t been to look 
at your property lately. That ar 
curly wa’nut ain’t no good for ve- 
neerin’ nor nothin’ else; it’s done 
chopped to pieces.” 

Apparently his neighbour was 
absorbed in switching a fly off the 
white mule’s back, for he replied 
with his eye following the fly: 


Site Srou^fif (£firi$tmas 

“I was up thar yesterday evening 
an ’twas all right then. You jump 
in thar ’long side of my boy and 
we’ll go up and look at it,” and the 
embarrassed old man got in because 
he didn’t know what else to do 
or what to say. 

When next they halted they were 
among the felled trees. It was 
strange, but Colonel Ledbetter’s eyes 
never happened to light on that 
scarred log as he led his party past 
it and toward the summit of the hill. 

“There’s only ten trees lying 
here,” he said, “that curly I left 
standing. Sometimes the man that 
buys it will give more for it that-a- 
way because he wants to have it 
cut particular; sometimes they count 
on gettin’ root and all.” 

“Thar she is neighbour,” he said 
to the Kentuckian, slapping the old 
tree’s sides as proudly as if it had 
been a three-year-old thoroughbred 
and his own, “and if you don’t ’low 



Site Broucjfif (Sonatinas 

she’s a giant and a beauty, you want 
to go out of the lumber business.” 

He waited to hear his sentiment 
confirmed and then hand in hand 
with his grandson walked away leav- 
ing Sumter to make his own bargain. 

“You see, Grover Cleveland,” he 
said as they came up to the hacked 
log, “he was too mad to see straight 
and he lit on the wrong tree.” 

“Why gran’daddy, he was walkin’ 
in his sleep!” 

“Sure ’nough; gran’daddy plumb 
forgot that part of the story” — 
he sorted some chips about with the 
toe of his boot — “but, Grover 
Cleveland, don’t you never go to 
actin’ that spiteful, sleepin’ or 


ss 

t£fi* tBrou^fif (Sfimtmas 

but less marked; as if a thin lava- 
flow of astonishment had hardened 
upon his features. 

“That thar feller,” he said, “ ’lowed 
me fo’teen hundred dollars for the 
curly wa’nut and yesterday evening 
I druv over to the cou’t-house and 
— nary man’s got a nickel’s worth 
of claim on my farm now.” 

Colonel Ledbetter grabbed his 
hand and shook it heartily. 

“I certainly am glad, Sam,” he 
said, “I certainly am.” 

“Looks like you think as you 
say, Jake.” The old fellow hoisted 
himself on his feet and, after the 
distortions of figure necessary to 
get possession of his pocket-book, 
said: “Here’s the thirty dollars 
you give me for the curly and here’s 
another thirty for the log that got 
hacked.” Without another word he 
stumped clumsily out to his wagon, 
Colonel Ledbetter following in a 
neighbourly way. 


Sfk Srcwjfit Cfimtmos 

“That’s a fine heifer you’ve got 
tied behind, Sam; tollable much 
Holstein in her, ain’t there?” 

“Looks like thar is; g’long!” 

He turned into the road, but a 
second thought made him look 
back. 

“See here”; Colonel Ledbetter 
went to him. 

“That thar line fence that Higgins 
has been a-snarlin’ ’bout for twenty 
year — he says it b’longs on my side 
the branch. It was on yon side 
when the property come into my 
hands but, ’cordin’ to the records 
over to the cou’t-house, looks like 
there’s a chance of him bein’ in the 
right of it. And I’m like you and 
Grover Cleveland, Jake; I don’t 
want nothin’ ’tain’t mine. I don’t 
reckon Higgins’ll have anything to 
say to me, but if you’re a mind to go 
over and talk to him ’bout it, we’ll 
have it straightened out. G’long.” 

Over the hill he went, jerked Sal 


Slid ‘BatjWo Cfimtmos 

to a stand in front of Mis’ Jimson’s 
log-cabin, clambered out of the 
wagon, and began to untie the cow. 
The old woman came limping down 
the walk with surprise but no wel- 
come in her face. 

“ Where’ll you have her?” he 
asked with his eyes on his fingers. 

“Whatever do you mean, Sam 
Sumter?” 

“Mis’ Jimson, you ’lowed I’d 
put my brand onto the ears of your 
calf. This ’ere creeter run with mine 
up on the mounting the whole sea- 
son and when they brought my 
cattle down she was with ’em; but if 
you say she’s yours ” 

“She is mine, I know her by the 
shape of the white blanket on her 
back. ’Tain’t hard to know your 
own when one is all you’ve got.” 

“Here she is,” he opened the 
gate, put the animal into the yard 
and had regained his seat before 
she recovered her speech. 




Sfo 3^.1060 Srou^fif <£fin&tjna* 

“How’s all the folks, Cap’n 
Sumter?” 

“Tollable; g’long!” 

The cow was too wild to let her 
mistress come near so she stood and 
admired her afar off: 

“Looks like the millenyum has 
done come,” she said, “and I’m 
mighty glad I’ve lived to see it.” 

“Well what about it!” exclaimed 
Aunt Dicey the next Sunday, point- 
ing to her dingy little wooden clock, 
“she’s done stopped — a hour ago 
for all I know. We’ll be late to 
church an’ I wouldn’t miss what 
Preacher Carr has got to say this 
mornin’ — not for a pretty. Why, 
Zeb’lon, they’re a-sayin’ that ole 
man Sumter’s sure ’nough got re- 
ligion!” 

“You say he has!” Zeb’s tone 
was as wrathy as it was incredulous. 

“Sure ’nough; Mis’ Campbell 
says he’s a-restorin’ fourfold!” 


£ik Srou^fit Cfimtmas 

“Thar’s the old sinner now,” 
grumbled Zeb; “talk about good 
folks and they’re plumb sure to 
heave into sight.” 

“Well, what about it? He’s 
a-drivin’ up I” 

“Hullo in there! Zeb’lon!” 

Just within the door but out of 
the old man’s sight, Aunt Dicey 
counseled her grandson: 

“You speak him fair, Zeb’lon, 
for they say he sure has got religion; 
but I’ll stand on the porch with the 
gun whar he can see me good; maybe 
that’ll keep him from backslidin’ 
all of a suddent.” 

They went out together. Zeb 
said “Mornin’ ” but his tone was 
not conciliatory. 

“I’ve got a mighty pretty year- 
old colt up to my place; come of 
first-class Kentucky stock. If you’re 
a mind to, you can come up and git 
him, to pay for that thar tame deer I 
shot. G’long!” 


33tm|6f (ffirntmos 

Church was “in” when Aunt 
Dicey and Zeb drove up, and before 
they had alighted and found a place 
to hitch among the two score beasts 
of draught or burden that were dis- 
posed in the surrounding woods, 
church was “out.” But the con- 
gregation didn’t disperse; they stood 
about in groups discussing the 
wonderful events of the past week. 
Preacher Carr came and stood in 
the doorway : 

“Give me that old-time religion,” 
he sang out lustily, and his people 
joined joyously in the refrain. Ar- 
sula Garrett always led the singing 
and she followed him with: 

“It was good for the Hebrew 
children,” and they kept on chanting 
the efficacy of the “old-time re- 
ligion” in the case of “the prophet 
Daniel,” “the good Elijah,” “the 
psalmist David,” “poor old Noah,” 
“the patriarch Abr’ham,” and, 
when they had exhausted Arsula’s 


Slid ‘Botj/iftfto Srou^fif Cfimtmas 

list of sacred-history heroes, they 
sang: 

“It was good for my old mother,” 

“It will be good in the time of trouble,” 

“It will be good when the world’s on fire,” 

and finally they rounded up the 
catalogue of human experiences and 
human apprehensions with: 

“It will be good when I am dying, 

It is good enough for me.” 

But Grover Cleveland wasn’t 
ready to go home yet and, tugging 
at Arsula’s skirt, he piped timor- 
ously: 

“It will be good while I’m 
a-livin,” — probably it was only dis- 
like of the thought of dying that 
inspired his improvisation, but 
Arsula and the rest took it up with 
all their heart: 

It will be good while I am living, 

It is good enough for me.” 


) 




S2UV 3 

XL 

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